


Against All Odds

by ravenscar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMFs, Crusades AU, Disguise, Eventual Happy Ending, Historical References, Intrigue, M/M, Magical Realism, Middle East meets West, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 126,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenscar/pseuds/ravenscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a Crusader crosses paths with an enigmatic young Briton in the Holy Land, their lives are changed forever.<br/>***06-Aug-2016: NOW COMPLETE.***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**

**Disclaimer** :

  * This work is not beta'd or brit-picked.
  * Re. the warnings: the violence is what one can expect from a story set in medieval times. And the rape/non-con situation is only non-con, not actual rape. And it ends well, I swear! :)



This story, as all my stories, will contain lots of angst, lots of loving and guaranteed HEA. Tags and characters will be added as the chapters are posted. It is inspired by, and named for, [Phil Collins' masterpiece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuvtoyVi7vY), one of my favourite songs. Ever.

Feedback would be fantastic. So if you like the story enough to let me know either by way of kudos or, even better, comments, I thank you!!

Happy holidays, everyone!

-Ravenscar

 


	2. Chapter 2

‘Imran! Get over here!’ a stentorian voice ordered in the Saracen tongue, gruff with impatience. A tall Saracen stood beside another man in the great hall of the most opulent mansion in the city of Tiberias, conquered by the Saracen army of Saladin in the Battle of Hattin.

Smaller than the speaker, the other man was accoutred as a Knight Hospitaller. A large, white, eight-pointed Maltese cross was emblazoned on the black cloak that fell in a heavy curtain down from his shoulders to his ankles and a smaller rendering of the same cross adorned the front of his dark tunic, over his heart. The Crusader’s helmet, with the attached flexible aventail to protect his neck and shoulders, was cradled against his side in the curve of his arm that also hooked into the strap behind his shield. Dark linen stockings were tucked into knee-high tan brown leather boots laced up with strings of black leather.

The knight’s face was shrouded under the hood of his cloak but tongues of flame licked out from large torches arranged against the four pillars in the hall, illuminating his shadowed visage for brief seconds to reveal a weary but handsome face; the only suggestion of colour in this grim palette of black, white and gray could be found in his eyes. Blue as the unexplored seas and as unfathomable, his intense gaze swept over the chamber, recording everything he saw.

Flickering torchlight painted his surroundings with tranquil strokes of yellow light that grew agitated when a breeze whipped in through the open door and fanned the fires into a frenetic dance. From the middle of the chamber, cushioned armchairs and long pillows beckoned invitingly to the tired soldier while the lush carpet cocooned his tired feet and invited him to rest. An intricate tapestry adorned one wall; it told the story of a devout man on a quest to meet the Prophet Mohammed. Another prominent sign of the Saracen's religion hung from the wall – holy verses artistically hand-written, in black ink using the beautiful Arabic script, on a large piece of white parchment framed in a square of black wood. The knight had just begun to draw a contrast between these sumptuous, warm arrangements and his own Spartan circumstances when his musings were interrupted by the sound of quickening steps.

Presently, a young boy appeared in the chamber. He was, in the knight’s estimation, at most fourteen years of age. The boy instinctively turned in the direction of the authoritarian voice but stopped short when he beheld the baffling sight of turbaned Saracen and hooded Christian standing in close proximity, swords sheathed in their scabbards and nary a suggestion of conflict between them. That the knight stood a head shorter than the Saracen was dismissed as an inconsequential detail because, in the enamoured boy’s view, even surrounded by this opulence while coated in the dust and sweat that unavoidably attend arduous travel over desert terrain, the aura of this august knight of modest stature radiated like the burning sun and dwarfed, by comparison, the taller man standing beside him. Whereas the Saracen’s appearance had the advantage of crimson robes of rich silk and a bejewelled black turban, the knight’s innate magnificence was enhanced by his masculine minimalism, by the folds of his cloak, the austerity of his armour, the abnegation in his blue eyes. The Saracen personified excess, the Crusader asceticism. Yet he was beautiful to the boy whose lips parted around a shivering sigh, the movement and sound not lost on the Saracen.

The older man cleared his throat in warning, shaking the boy out of his reverie. ‘Father!’ the chastened boy said with a low bow. His eyes darted up to his father’s face and stopped; a large bruise was darkening the sunken cheek above the bristly beard and spreading to the Saracen’s high cheekbone. Hastily he scanned the rest of his father’s form. The Saracen showed signs of having been in a violent altercation – the fabric on his sleeve was ripped and blood seeped from a laceration on his forearm.

‘Father, you are injured!’ he exclaimed and just like that, the knight’s spell over him shattered as he reminded himself of the gory battle in which the Crusaders and Saracens were still engaged. The Crusader was their enemy. ‘Did this knight harm you, Father?’ he growled with all the bellicosity his young voice could muster, his hands balling into fists. His attempt at ferocity, however, had the unfortunately amusing effect of making his as yet unbroken voice thin and high pitched.  

The Saracen chuckled fondly. ‘Yes, my boy’, he affirmed in mock seriousness. ‘This man attacked me, ripped my tunic and slashed my arm in a bid to rob me of my coin. In return, I have invited him to my home.’

Shamed by his hasty conclusion, the boy cast his eyes downward but the Saracen was glad because Imran’s reactive question stemmed from filial concern. ‘You are a good son, Imran. I know you care for my safety. Look at me. This brave knight saved me from a surprise attack by two of his fellows. Crusaders they were by habit but brigands by character. Were it not for this man, more than just my arm would be bleeding.’

That clarification brought the boy’s infatuation flooding back and he cast a slanted look at the knight, secretly embellishing his romantic impression of the man with the added virtues of gallantry and courage.

His father sighed knowingly. ‘When you have rolled your tongue back into your mouth, Imran, you will tend to this kind knight. He is our guest for as long as he wishes to be. You will draw him a bath and prepare our best robes for him to wear. White’, he instructed, flicking his gaze over the knight’s dark, dusty clothing. ‘Make them white. When he is bathed, bring him to my tent. I shall retire now to my chamber; ask your mother to join me there.’   

‘As you wish, Father’, the boy murmured and faced the knight. ‘Salaam alaikum, Sir Knight’, the boy said, lifting his hand to his forehead in the Saracen greeting.

‘Wa alaikum as-salaam’, the knight responded, raising his own hand to his face in similar greeting, perfectly enunciating the Saracen acknowledgement.  

‘You speak our words!’ the boy exclaimed.  

‘I do’, the knight said with a smile. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Emir’, he said to the boy’s father.  

‘It is my privilege to open my home to you’, said the Emir of Tiberias, with a bow of his head. ‘When you are refreshed, Imran will bring you to my tent for a night of celebration that I may express my gratitude in earnest. I would have you partake in the festivities and extravagances in which even we, devout Saracens, sometimes indulge and show you what many Crusaders know but will not acknowledge – that we can be a generous and agreeable people.’ 

‘My lord, please follow me’, the boy said respectfully and led the knight down a narrow vestibule that ran along the outside of the mansion; it was walled on one side and open on the other, with evenly spaced thick columns that bore intricate carvings and were connected by a continuous, waist-high balustrade to offer a safe and unobstructed view of the city. The skies were darkening and their path was lit by torches that leaned out from ornamental sconces bracketed to the walls.

From between the pillars, the knight looked out at the city of Tiberias, at the little yellow lights blinking in the distance from smaller houses and tents as the Saracen community prepared to face south-east, towards Mecca, and offer evening prayer to Allah while the sun once more sank behind the gently rippling expanse of the Sea of Galilee. A redemptive sense of peace surged through his heart, incompatible with the aggression and bloodshed that stained the sands outside the gates of this city.

Untouched by the horrors of war, the placid panorama of the evening sky nestled around him like a meditative blanket. His gaze swept across the undisturbed heavenly canvas until, at the periphery of his view, a breathtaking distraction loomed in the form of a large mosque that cast a broad, beautiful dome-shaped silhouette of black. It was flanked by four tall minarets that soared into the backdrop of purple and orange and indigo, as if drawing one's eyes to the silver crescent moon seemingly cradling the evening star. His eyelids grew heavy when the haunting voice of the muezzin issued a lilting call to the faithful to come pray to their god, a god who was, he imagined, very possibly quite like his own. Yet their peoples were engaged in deadly conflict, but over what?

Were he to strip himself of his sense of duty and every religious belief instilled in him since he was a child, he would concede that at the root of the conflict was but a piece of land to which men of power had laid claim in the names of men of God long since passed from this world. This radical perspective, however, he quelled with a tense shake of his head and assumed once more his mantle of Crusader in the army of God; banishing any lingering fanciful thoughts of a world without conflict, he turned his attention back to the boy walking before him.

Their footsteps echoed on the stone walls and slowed as they approached their destination. Imran stopped and pushed open a heavy wooden door to reveal a plush bath chamber. Pulling out the flaming torch from its sconce at the door, he dipped it over each of the four unlit torches in the room until they caught the flame and the bath chamber was aglow in warm, golden light.

After returning the torch he held to its cradle outside the room, he turned to the knight. ‘My lord, I shall ready the water to prepare your bath and, if you would permit me, wash you.’

‘That would be a welcome luxury, Imran’, said the knight in the Saracen language.

Imran started a fire in the furnace and hung a bucket of water over it. A large tub sat in the middle of the chamber. Through a surreptitious glance that failed to evade the knight’s perspicacity, Imran watched the older man shed his clothing. The knight placed his helmet on a stool where it settled over the slithering metallic folds of the aventail. When he pushed the cloak off his head, a low exclamation of delight slipped from Imran’s lips when he caught sight of the long, golden hair that fell to the knight’s cloaked shoulders in a matted ruffle. The knight pulled at the knot at his neck, letting the cloak drop to the floor in a heavy heap of fabric. Propping a foot on the stool, the knight leaned down to unlace and pull off his boots, first one, then the other. Next, a brown leather belt, weighed down by the scabbard sheathing the knight’s fine sword and pulled tight around his lean waist, was undone to release the loose folds of the black surcoat. The knight’s tunic and stockings were the final pieces of clothing to drop to the floor, revealing lithe limbs sculpted into sleek muscles by years of adept sword-fighting and horseback riding.

This gradual, provocative unrobing of the knight’s body caused a tightening in Imran’s chest that made the simple and essential act of drawing breath very difficult. But then it became nigh impossible because, at the apex of those taut legs, nestled in a bush of coarse, golden-brown hair, Imran espied a commensurately sized shaft resting against a large sac which stretched around smooth, heavy globes. The boy suspected that the knight had not achieved release in a while. His agreeable discomfort worsened when he saw the older man’s shaft swell under his gaze and he gleefully revised his opinion – when erect, the knight was considerably bigger than his bodily proportions would suggest. Desire fluttered in the boy’s chest and a dark blush heated his cheeks. His tongue licked over his lips, tasting, in his imagination, a pearl of liquid pooled at the knight’s tip. Just then, the water started to bubble loudly in a dangerously accurate reproduction of his own passion roiling within him; the boy took that as his cue to empty the heated liquid into the tub.

Four more bucket-loads later, the water had reached the half-way point in the tub. Snapping open a few incense bottles, the boy splashed fragrant drops from each into the water. A flimsy skin of oil formed over the surface of the water, glistening and unbroken. Imran then opened a large box from which he grabbed a fistful of friable crystals of blue and purple and crushed them into a fine dust, moving his hand in a circle to sprinkle the powder over the entire surface of the water. Shortly, large bubbles started popping through the oily gauze, breaking it into smaller shiny islands and foaming, with a sputtering hiss, into a soft, thick lather. As a final preparatory touch, he tossed rose petals into the tantalising concoction and, with a bow, invited the knight to begin his ablutions. The boy’s lowered gaze, the knight noticed, lingered a second too long on his growing nether regions.

The knight lifted his leg and tested the temperature of the water. Perfect. Slowly lowering himself into the sweet-smelling liquid cushion, he groaned loudly as the heat stung his skin and deeply penetrated his tired limbs, his filthy skin, his matted hair. The boy dipped a washcloth in the tub and began to gently scrub the exhausted soldier’s back, washing away the grime and massaging the strained tendons and sinews into a delectable lassitude. The knight’s head rolled back onto the edge of the tub, his breaths lengthening as the boy drew his washcloth over the man’s shoulders and reached down the front of his torso, rubbing smooth circles over the planes of his chest, his ribs and ridged abdomen. The boy’s hand dipped lower, unseen and nonchalant under the foam and was within an inch of reaching its bobbing prize when a strong hand grabbed the wayward wrist.

Ice blue eyes chilled the boy’s dark gaze. Mortified, Imran chewed his lower lip and turned crimson. ‘Is my touch not comfortable, Sir Knight?’  

‘It is a little too comfortable’, the knight chuckled softly. ‘That will do, young Imran’, he murmured, his lips curling knowingly.

‘Pardon me, Sir Knight’, the boy mumbled, blushing furiously.

‘Think naught of it, but I would prefer to continue the rest of my bathe in solitude.’

‘Certainly, my lord. Pardon me, Sir Knight’, he murmured, dropping his head. ‘My father- he would be most displeased if he learned that I gave offence to an honoured guest.’

‘You need have no fear, Imran, for you have been most gracious in your care and that is what I shall convey to the Emir.’

The boy nodded, contrite in his gratitude. ‘I shall prepare towels and fresh clothes for you. Please ring for me when you are ready’, he said, holding out a rope which was tethered at the other end to a bell, ‘and I shall return.’ With that, the boy retreated from the room.

Alone in the hypnotic chamber, the air heavy with scented steam twisting up in dewy tendrils around his body, the knight sank back into the heated water which lapped faithfully at his yearning skin like a lover’s thirsting tongue. It had been so long since he had felt the touch of another body, another man. Although he had enjoyed the soft and welcoming bodies of many women, it was the men he remembered most. Hard and demanding, a man could give him as much as he could take and would not break under the force of his passion. The boy's extravagant, lustful attention had colluded with the perfumed mist pervading the bath chamber to awaken a long-suppressed need in the knight and now he craved release. The only instrument available to him was his own hand which, tuned to the needs of its master, obediently crept down between his legs and began to stroke his flesh.

Heated velvet skin stretched tight around a swelling shaft that throbbed with the promise of fulfilment. His strokes picked up speed, keeping time with his shuddering breath. It had been too long. It would not take very long. Relief arrived a few moments later with a stiffening of limbs, a convulsion of breath and then silence as shattering release pooled gratefully in the palm of his hand. His thighs were still shaking when he closed his fist around his warm ejaculate and pulled his hand out of the water. He rubbed his palm clean on his cloak for he knew his clothing would be laundered that night. When the quivering stopped, he set to the task of cleaning himself, scrubbing away the dirt and sweat, the pungent musk under his arms and between his legs, the strands of his hair and the skin of his face until his body glistened from the healing oils, fragrant with their heady scents. He stood up in the tub, rivulets of aromatic water trickling down his gleaming limbs, and rang for Imran.

The boy appeared almost instantly, holding out a pile of folded white fabric which he placed on a nearby stool. Unfolding a large white towel, he held it out for the knight and wrapped it around his wet body, taking his time to get an eyeful of the older man’s genitals that had unstiffened and grown smaller in that brief interval. Dark brown eyes stole up to the knight’s face. The soldier’s lips were flushed as was his skin. The blue gaze had softened and the wet hair hung in long, dark gold clumps, one thick lock stuck to a vein that pulsed under the knight’s skin where his neck met his shoulders. The knight’s cloak lay by the tub, one edge held in a bunched crumple by a hardening fluid. Oh!

The knight knew that the boy knew but was too deliciously undone to care. ‘Will you show me the kindness of washing my clothes, Imran?’

‘It would be an honour, Sir Knight!’ breathed the boy.

The knight suspected that his cloak would receive one more man’s essence before being washed. The infatuated boy, he was fairly certain, would wrap that stained edge of the cape around his young cock and bring himself to completion to thoughts of its owner before proceeding with his duties. An indulgent smile grew on his lips. He, too, had once been that young. But now, in his thirty years, he had seen too much – too much love and loss, too much blood and death. A furtive release now and then was all the pleasure he knew. A wave of exhaustion washed over the knight.

With a sobering sigh, he stepped out of the tub so that Imran could towel him dry, too weary and detached to object when the boy’s hands rubbed the towel over his uninterested genitals in a blatant caress and lingered over the swell of his buttocks, drawing the cloth diffidently down the shadowed cleft between them. He stood, unresisting, as the boy held a clean, white tunic over his head and helped his arms into the long sleeves. The tunic fell over his naked skin and reached his ankles. Around his waist, Imran fastened a black sash made of corded, silken rope and tied it into a tasteful knot over his navel; he pulled the twin loops down, under the sash, and patted down the loose ends of the rope so that they settled between the circles. It amused the knight that his young page had arranged the knot to create the impression of a cock and balls to draw attention to his groin. The boy’s lust was unbounded. Huffing out a tolerant chuckle, he strapped his feet into the brown leather sandals Imran held out for him and followed the boy to the Emir’s tent.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - This chapter describes a non-con situation. It wasn't comfortable to write but it serves a purpose.

The large marquee was a lone spot of bright white in the middle of the dark grounds behind the Emir’s mansion, illuminated from the inside by numerous torches. Imran held open the heavy flap at the front and gestured to the knight to enter.

‘If you feel I merit it’, said the boy, ‘I pray that you speak kindly of my services to my father, Sir Knight.’

‘I shall, Imran, and shukhran again.’ With that, the knight stepped into a setting that, he could have sworn, was a chapter from the Book of One Thousand and One Nights, specifically a faithful enactment of the most erotic and immoral of verses penned by Abu Nawas. Glancing over his shoulder, the knight was relieved that Imran had closed the entrance to the tent and retreated.

The knight surveyed the scene before him. From the centre of the large tent, his ears picked up the squeak of the oud player’s fingers moving on his instrument’s narrow neck as his other hand dextrously strummed the plectrum over perfectly tuned strings in a percussive melody that kept time with the energetic rhythm beaten out by his accompanist on the tabor drum. Bare-breasted women glided across the floor of the tent, their nude hips wrapped in body-hugging beaded skirts of diaphanous silk that, rather than provide modesty, were designed to exaggerate the carnality of what they inadequately obscured from view. The women’s anklets clinked prettily as they kicked and twisted their lissom legs, tapping the ground with their playful feet, dancing with the abandon of those who soar on the wings of thoughts unchained by the influence of hashish.

Pausing before each group of guests, they moved their glistening bodies, in synchronous undulations, to the twisting tunes teased out of the wooden rebecs tucked below the chins of three instrumentalists who struggled to conceal their stimulation at the sight of so much enticing naked flesh. The dancers’ jewellery, made with metal and cheap gemstones, created its own brand of softly jingling music by shifting between their full, firm breasts; slender waists and svelte hips dropped and jerked in tight, staccato patterns which then melted into long, fluid movements. The women shimmied, they vibrated, they shivered, and their audience responded, like well-trained pets, with raging arousal and raucous demands for more.

The knight tore his eyes from this sensory excess, hoping to find a tamer scene to help calm his galloping heart but instead found that in one corner of the tent activities had progressed to the next level. A naked woman straddled the hips of a man whose greedy mouth sucked voraciously on her pert nipples; his large hands kneaded her buttocks while raising and lowering her hips, impaling her on his throbbing cock. Well trained in providing pleasure, the woman threw her head back and uttered loud cries of feigned pleasure, urging the man to take her harder, faster, deeper. His desire stoked to climactic levels, the man started driving up into her yielding flesh until he spent inside her with a hoarse moan and deep shudder.

A few feet from that man sat an older Bedouin, his robe pulled up his legs, his thighs opened to accommodate the bobbing head of a young catamite who was, judging by the look of genuine pleasure on the older man’s face and the slurping sounds emanating from the region of his groin, fellating him with great skill. Next to these men was a featherbed being put to vigorous use by two very stimulated young men. The knight snatched his eyes away from the sweaty scenes of debauchery being enacted before him. His legs grew weak and desire slammed against his chest. He had gone too long without the feeling of a naked body under him and the stealthy climax he had achieved earlier that day had done little to alleviate his cravings. It would take at least a week of repeatedly burying himself in another body to ease the sexual tension that threatened to erupt from his own.

He had just begun to rue the fateful day he surrendered the Dukedom of Northumberland, and its concomitant comforts, to volunteer to fight in the Crusades, when a voice called out and he turned to see the Emir hailing him. The knight joined his host at a long table laden with food and wine. As soon as he was seated, the Emir clapped him on the back.

‘This is the man to whom I owe my life!’ the Emir exclaimed in introduction. ‘Shukhran jazeelan, Sir Knight.’

The knight took the goblet of wine the Emir offered him and raised it to join the rest of the Emir’s guests in celebration.

‘Tell us about yourself, Sir Knight. I do not even know your name. What are you called? Whence do you hail? How many summers have you spent here?’

‘I am John Watson’, said the knight, then quietly sipped his wine.

The Emir and his guests waited but the knight seemed unprepared to say much more.

‘Your economy with words is refreshing, Sir John. Would that I could prevail upon my other guests to be as sparing with theirs!’ laughed the Emir. ‘Please, tell us your story.’

‘There is not much to tell.’

‘I am certain there is! Tell us about the adventures you have had. Tell us about what happens to you on these… Crusades as your people call them.’

‘Nothing happens to me’, the knight murmured.

Bemused guests looked from the Emir to the laconic knight and back and then returned to their food. The Emir, however, would not be denied entertainment.

‘Perhaps I can loosen your tongue with wine, Sir John!’ he said, clapping his hands. A servant poured more wine into John’s goblet. ‘I have yet to show you the full extent of my gratitude. First you must eat, of course’, the Emir insisted, sweeping his arm across the table at the mouth-watering food arrayed in curvaceous bowls and delicately carved plates of silver. The aroma of tender meats lovingly seasoned in middle-eastern spices wafted over the smell of sex and John’s stomach growled in pleased anticipation.

The Emir and his guests engaged in lively conversation, allowing John to enjoy his food in silence. And it was very enjoyable food, indeed. His teeth had just sunk into a succulent piece of lamb when the skin on his neck tingled with the brush of someone’s gaze. He was being watched. Carefully chewing his meat, savouring the medley of flavour that exploded on his tongue, he scanned his surroundings, seeking the source of that observation. Three tall guardsmen were stationed at the far end of the tent, armed with long swords and curved daggers. As if caught in the inescapable pull of a magnet, his gaze dragged a little lower and was transfixed by a pair of vale green eyes boring into his. A sharp awareness sparkled in those eyes but seemed to be dimming gradually as evidenced by dark lashes languorously sweeping down to beautiful cheeks and then lifting back up, as if forced by their owner to open again. The unfocused eyes blinked a few times before locking on John once more.

That was as much as John could see because the rest of what he was absolutely certain was an elegant arrangement of face, head and neck was concealed by a black scarf. One burly guardsman seemed to notice their silent connection and clapped a warning hand on the shoulder of the figure in black. The green eyes looked away and John bit into another piece of meat. But moments later, defying his attempt to properly focus on the meal before him, his attention returned to the mysterious captive and was lost again to the intoxication in those eyes. Before he knew it, the meal was over.

‘And now we come to the interesting part of the night’, said the Emir, jolting John out of his reverie. ‘Anyone, Sir John’, he said and gestured with a broad sweep of his arm to the women dancing around the tent. ‘You may have anyone you wish, or as many’, he offered with a magnanimous grin.

The knight looked over at the women and then shook his head. ‘Shukhran, Emir, but that is not necessary. You have shown me more kindness than a poor knight such as I could expect.’ Involuntarily, his eyes flicked once more to the vision in black and stayed there, bewitched.

Considering the knight’s words for a moment and perceiving where his attention lay, the Emir came to a conclusion. ‘I see. Perhaps it is not the female form that you desire, Sir John, for that would also ensure you do not contravene your vow of celibacy. That is no hardship at all for I have with me a rare flower, a virgin young man I was saving for my bed tonight. However, I shall give him to you if you find him pleasing. Bismillah!’ he hailed a servant. ‘Bring the slave here!’

John’s lips tightened at the word _slave_ but he warily sipped at his wine and watched, over the lip of his cup, the figure in black struggling against Bismillah’s unforgiving grip on his arm and stumbling towards John in the process. John nearly dropped his goblet for, up close, the green eyes burned into his like flashing marbles with flecks of brown, fiery with hate. But then the eyes flitted over to the guests at the table and turned dark and wide, with only a thin ring of light green around them. The boy had just then grasped his precarious situation but stupor bested vigilance as torpid eyelids momentarily shuttered the beautiful windows to the boy’s soul. Oh! He was under the influence of an intoxicant too strong for his unaccustomed constitution.

‘The boy seems somewhat… inert’, John remarked as casually as he could manage, his head turned towards the Emir but still watching the boy, his heart pounding to an uneven, tripping rhythm.

‘Yes. He has been given a special concoction to make his spirited disposition more… agreeable. What kind of patron would want to lie with a bed slave who might maul him? I do enjoy rough copulation on occasion but I do not wish to be killed!’ said the Emir with a bawdy chuckle. The guests slapped their thighs in hearty accord.

Oblivious to the greedy, salacious men around him, John stared at the boy. It was impossible for him to look anywhere else.

‘Ah, I see the slave is your… cup of tea?’ the Emir laughed. ‘You need only say the word and you may use him to warm your bed tonight.’

John immediately shook his head. ‘No, Emir. You misunderstand my interest.’

‘What is your interest, then?’

‘He- he does not belong.’

‘Indeed he does not. I did say he is a rare flower. He is worthy of a taste, Sir Knight. Of that fact I assure you.’

‘How would you know that?’ John asked, an unexpected pinch of fear for the slave’s safety tightening his chest. ‘You said he is a virgin.’

‘I do not need to taste a wine to know that it is fine’, the Emir laughed. ‘I have seen the slave unclothed. He is not merely fine, he is _exquisite_. _All over_. Unlike other pleasure slaves, I have had to cover his form lest my guards and guests lose their restraint and plunder him.’ John’s unrelenting reticence kept him silent, so the Emir added, ‘If it is probity that stays your hand, he is young but definitely not a child. Even I would not stoop so low as to violate an innocent. This slave has seen at least nineteen summers. You have comrades fighting your holy war at that age, do you not? Do you consider them boys or men?’

‘I am grateful for your generosity but I must decline.’

‘Well, Sir Knight, if you will not have him, I shall enjoy his gifts and then share him with my guests when I am satisfied.’

John looked over the Bedouins sitting around the table, none of whom paid him the slightest attention for their unmoving gazes were fixed on the young man whose own bleary eyes drifted over the room but always came to rest on John. Emotions shifted in the green fire; one moment it seemed the slave was daring John to defile him and the next asking him to rescue him from being sold to the flesh trade. John’s groin swelled but his chest swelled even more with his inherent need to protect the defenceless and right now, this man needed protection.

‘Take him to my bed chamber, Bismillah’, said the Emir.

That prompted an abrupt interjection from John. ‘No! Wait! Please’, John spoke up. ‘I will take him.’

A collective groan of disappointment shattered the festive mood at the table and the Emir’s guests descended into crude cacophony.

‘Very well, Sir John’, said the Emir, raising his voice to be heard over the disquiet around him. ‘He is yours for the night. Please, sample him here before you leave us’, he continued, settling back into his chair for a demonstration.

Shock flashed in John’s eyes but he reined in his anger to say, ‘I shall. In my bed chamber.’ He had no intention of touching the slave, here or in any chamber.

‘Oh no, no, no. No’, the Emir shook his head. 'That would be a terrible insult to my honour.’

‘I do not see why. It is not our way to engage in private activities in public forums.’

‘But in this instance, it is our way.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘You partook of my food and my wine where my guests could observe your appreciation of my hospitality. If you do not have a taste of this gift in their presence, it will be seen as a rejection of my hospitality because they will have no way of knowing if my gift met with your approval.’

John did not, for a moment, believe this argument; he was certain the Emir was motivated less by any thoughts of honour than a desire to provide his guests with a libidinous spectacle. ‘This gift is – a young man. A human being.’ He tried to appeal to the Emir’s paternal side. ‘What if Imran were in this situation?’

‘But it is not Imran in this situation’, said the Emir, a smug smile lifting his beard. ‘It is a slave I bought with good coin. A _slave_. It is his purpose to provide pleasure with his body. Take him once before my guests and you may take him many more times in your bed chamber until he is returned to me tomorrow morning. But the first time must be here, now. Would you insult your host?’ The Emir waited as John considered his words. ‘I know what you are thinking. At this moment, you see us as mindless servants to our baser urges but is it not your holy book that says “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”?’

John did not respond.

‘Your brethren,’ the Emir continued, ‘the _Crusaders_ , have been known to ply young men, very young men, with wine and join with them, against their wishes, to circumvent their own vows of chastity.’

John turned away from the uncomfortable truth of the Emir’s words. He saw the salivating men waiting, with wet, open mouths, for him to sully the slave. If he refused, the young man would be passed around the tent like a whore. He could not allow him to be ravaged by these animals. His mind made up, he rose from the table and slowly walked towards the bound man. Bismillah immediately stepped back. The slave was a little taller than John so he tilted his head up to look at the shrouded face, into wide, frightened eyes. ‘Forgive me’, he whispered in the Saracen language. ‘I will not hurt you but I must pretend to take you before I can rescue you. Do you understand?’

The verdigris eyes stared a moment before closing in understanding but when they opened, they were nearly black with apprehension. John was overcome with remorse for what he was about to do. Seeking to put a quick end to their misery, he walked behind the boy and pressed his groin into the cleft of his buttocks. Holding the boy’s hips steady with one hand, John placed his other hand on the back of his head and pushed down so that the slave was bending a little. ‘I prefer to take my men like this, Emir. I trust this is a satisfactory display.’

‘Indeed it is, Sir John! Please, do not delay. My guests grow excitable’, laughed the Emir. ‘As do I’, he added.

John pushed the slave’s bound wrists up his back and lifted his black robe to bunch it under his tightly clenched fists. It sickened him to use the man to expose himself but he was putting on a presentation for his host and his guests and the more lewd the appearance of the act, the less real the actual deed would have to be. It did not help matters that the slave’s limbs were long and beautifully muscled and under different circumstances, John would slowly run his hands over this body to feel the splendidly shaped physique with his palms. The captive’s lower regions were stunning. John’s desire betrayed him and his hands gently stroked the slender waist down to the subtle flare of hips. But his hands clenched at the sight of slippery skin glistening between the boy’s pale cheeks. Shocked, his eyes flew up to the Emir.

His host answered his unasked question. ‘I made him prepare himself for me, Sir Knight. You will find him ready to receive you.’

John’s stomach roiled at the callous treatment of the slave but he gave silent thanks that it was not the uncaring fingers of another man that debased this beautiful body because this was a body that should be worshipped and wooed into sighing submission, not hurt and humiliated like this. Still, it was the only way to rescue this young man and that is what John would do. He leaned over the slave’s back. ‘I will not hurt you, you understand? But I will have to…touch you’, he whispered. ‘Forgive me, I would give anything for circumstances to be different but I am helpless. There are too many men for me to fight singlehandedly.’

‘Ah! I see how you seduce your lovers, Sir Knight, by murmuring in their ears of the coming act’, the Emir remarked, nodding appreciatively. ‘It builds the anticipation, I am certain. I am not an unkind partner myself’, he added, ‘and there is no rule that forbids a bed slave from deriving pleasure in the performance of his duties. Let us see the slave achieve climax as well’, he instructed.

The bound man’s head dropped to his chest in submission; John’s hand crept around his hips and curled over his shaft, feeling it grow hot and hard in his palm. John suspected it was the opiate the boy had been administered that made him respond with arousal. They stood, the cynosure of lascivious eyes, flanked by two guardsmen who stared at their hips with more than just the attentiveness of diligent servants. Seeking a quick conclusion to this sordid situation, John lifted the front of his own long tunic and placed it over the boy’s hips, veiling the spot where they were to be joined. He slowly ran his hard cock up the slave’s cleft, disgust depreciating the relief he felt that the sounds produced by the movement were sufficiently loud and crude to convince their audience that John was penetrating the young man. The lusting men reached under their robes and began pulling at their cocks.

The slave’s head lifted and John felt a dry sob and a shudder run through the slender body; he had to end this!

‘Forgive me, I pray you’, he whispered, desperate to cause as little distress to his captive as he could. ‘I must do this. It is the only way I can get you out of here.’

John tugged harder on the young cock in his hand until the slave shuddered and spent onto the floor below him, the patches of white fluid clearly visible to their salacious spectators. Moments later, his own cock spurted its essence onto the small of his captive’s back. Weakened from the release, his head dropped to the boy’s bowed spine. When his breathing had evened, he straightened with a little difficulty and slipped his hand below his robe, pretending to pull his cock out of the slave but instead smearing his seed over the slick cleft. Still shaking, he stood back from the slave and dropped the hem of his own tunic. Before he could lower the slave’s robe, Bismillah stepped up to the still hunched man to inspect his cleft, now sticky with John’s seed. Looking up at the Emir, he nodded his confirmation that the boy had been deflowered. John immediately pulled the boy’s robe down, restoring his modesty, and helped him stand up straight. Moisture collected at the brim of those dark lashes but did not fall although John could tell that the green fire had been extinguished, leaving only black devastation in its wake. He loathed himself for being the perpetrator of that destruction.

‘How did you enjoy my gift, Sir Knight? He seems to have met with your approval’, the Emir chuckled softly.

‘I enjoyed it- him very much, Emir. With your permission, I would like to retire to enjoy him in the privacy of my bed chamber.’

‘You most certainly may, Sir Knight. Bismillah, take our honoured guest to the third bed chamber on the first floor. Imran would have readied it for the night.’

John bowed to the Emir and clasped the slave’s shoulder in a protective gesture. The man roughly shook himself free of John’s hand.

‘Ah, the stallion’s spirit is yet unbroken. Tomorrow morning, I will enjoy hearing how you saddled him during the night. I bid you a night of great pleasure, Sir John!’

John touched the slave’s arm. ‘Please, come with me. I will keep you safe’, he whispered. Distrust welled in the silent man’s suffering gaze and John’s heart sank. ‘I will not let them harm you.’ An unbidden thought, alarming in its strength, formed in his heart and spilled from his lips as a vow. ‘I will not let _anyone_ harm you.’ The captive’s eyes flitted over John’s, seeking the truth in his words, and long moments later, his arm relaxed and he allowed John to lead him out of the canopy. They followed Bismillah over the dark grounds and returned to the mansion where they were shown to the appointed bed chamber. John thanked the Emir’s servant and closed the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

The slave stood in the middle of the room with his head bowed, hands still bound behind his back. John’s weapons had been cleaned and returned to this chamber; they now lay arrayed on a table standing by the wall. He picked up a small poniard and the bound man at once took a wary step back. ‘No! Do not be afraid! I only wish to cut the ropes around your wrists.’

The thin shoulders rose and fell with deep, anxious breaths. Both men stood rooted to their spots until the captive turned around mutely, pushing his arms out, away from his back.

Encouraged by this show of trust, John stepped forward. ‘You do not say very much’, he observed, cutting the rope.

No sooner were the slave’s hands free than he rammed his shoulder into John’s chest with the full weight of his body and dove towards the table. John lost his footing and crashed to the floor, the dagger falling from his hand and skidding over the smooth stone tiles to come to rest at the other man’s feet. When John got back on his feet, he lowered his eyes to the pinprick on his chest - the tip of his own sword was pressed against his breastbone, discouraging any sudden moves.

An upward jerk of the swathed head signalled to John that he should stand by the wall. He stepped back. The other man tottered a little but steadied himself; he pulled off his scarf, brow furrowed in disgust, and flung it to the ground where it slithered to a stop like a dead black mamba. John stared, aghast, at the gag stuffed into the young man’s mouth and wound tightly around his head. Still holding John’s sword out in warning, the man picked up the dagger, reached behind his head and slid the blade along his hair and under the fabric of the gag, ripping it. The muzzle immediately loosened and he spat it out, choking over a loud expulsion of breath, and collapsed to the ground, weak, trembling. A bout of coughing racked the slender body which had curled into itself on the bare floor, shaking while the man’s lungs tried to empty themselves of the narcotic he had been forced to inhale.

John crawled forward to help the youth but a defiant arm swung up and he was again faced with the point of his sword. Uttering a weak grunt, the young man scrambled up onto his knees and one arm for support, still coughing, while the other arm brandished John’s weapon.

‘If you come any closer’, he rasped in English, his enunciation evocative of British nobility, ‘I will run you through with your own sword.’

‘You speak English!’

‘And you… state the obvious’, the youth snapped. Revulsion and panic filled the narrowed eyes that flashed at John as if to incinerate him.

John held back the gibe he would have flung at the youth under different circumstances. Patience was the need of the hour. That he had been compelled to participate in that vile spectacle was of little importance when he considered the fact that this young man had just been debased in the presence of a dozen ravenous men and was now locked in a chamber with the perpetrator of that very humiliation. Fear and mistrust were to be expected and John accepted that his touch would be repellent to the boy. He kept his distance. ‘I deeply, very deeply…regret…what I _had_ to do… to you. But I had no choice.’ He gentled his voice. ‘I only wished to help you then as I wish to help you now.’

The boy spat on the floor. ‘You have helped enough. Stay back’, he snarled, the fight strong in his spirt but not in his body for the arm that held out the sword grew tired and crashed to the floor just as the other arm buckled and he crumpled in a heap of limbs.

Long fingers unfurled weakly and John’s sword fell from the boy’s hand, clanging on the tiles but John did not move closer to the boy who had wrapped his arms around himself, knees pulled up to his chest in what John recognised as the foetal position of self-protection, his shoulders convulsing soundlessly. It pained John to see the young man so fragile, so vulnerable. The healer in him made him reach out and lightly stroke the boy’s back. As if burned, the boy jerked and unfurled his body shouting, ‘Do not touch me!’ His eyes were dry, blazing with an indomitable fire. ‘Do not- touch me’, he panted, softer, tired, and fell back to the ground, cheek pressed to the cold stone, his hair falling over his eyes.

The dark head shifted and a single wary eye fixed John from between long curls, watching him as a wounded fawn watches its predator circling, waiting for it to strike, ready to run but not ready to die. John rubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair. The fraught silence stretched out, five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Neither man made a move beyond a slight rearranging of limbs when they threatened to go numb. The knight and the boy, violator and violated, stayed locked in a mute negotiation, or war of words depending on the viewpoint. The connection was only broken when the boy’s eyes closed softly and he succumbed to the pull of the intoxicant running through his blood.

A gust of breath left John in a loud exhale and his back bowed, muscles loosening, shoulders stooping. He held his head in his hands, revisiting the events of the evening, marshalling his thoughts and planning his next move. He needed to gain the young man’s trust but how? What possible reason could a victim have to trust his aggressor? What could he tell the boy to convince him that he would not harm him? How was he to free the boy from the Emir’s clutches? What was he to do with him thereafter? Questions, more questions! He had yet to come up with a single answer when a rustle of fabric interrupted his contemplations.

The boy stirred, blinked hard and slow, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing them open again. His blurry gaze flitted about the chamber before settling on John. He froze for a moment as his mind desperately supplied memories to fill the gaps. Awareness dawned; he snapped upright and scampered backwards, stopping only when he hit the wall.

‘Do not fear me’, John said, holding up his hands to show that he meant no harm. ‘Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?’

The dismayed boy regarded John, wordless, his eyes wide with apprehension. Then he nodded slowly.

‘I will not harm you’, said John. ‘I give you my word.’ He walked to the corner of the chamber where a jug and two goblets sat on a smaller table. He poured water into one goblet and held it out to his companion. The young man recoiled but stared at the goblet and licked his dry lips. John placed the cup on the floor and stood back. The boy’s hand darted out to snatch the cup and he greedily gulped the water down, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Leaning forward, he gingerly placed the cup on the floor and retreated to the wall.

John smiled. ‘Do you want some more?’

The boy grunted in affirmation and John poured him another cup.

‘You are still suffering the effects of the intoxicant they forced on you. Do you know what they gave you?’

A choking cough. Then, a whisper. ‘Hashish.’

‘How much?’

‘Enough, apparently, to keep me pliant while my patrons satisfied themselves with my body.’ The beautiful mouth twisted in loathing. ‘As you doubtless observed during your depraved performance.’

‘I had no choice! Had I not done what I did, they would have taken turns to… hurt you.’

The young man snorted, rejecting John’s justification of his actions. ‘Such a convenient defence’, he hissed.

‘I took the only course of action that, in my view, would cause you the least amount of grief.’

‘Then your view is quite limited.’

John’s face twisted at the insult. ‘Impress me with an alternative, then’, he challenged. ‘It should prove useful the next time I am faced with an intoxicated, insolent young ingrate who is surrounded by armed enemies wishing to ravage him and I am the _one_ person trying to keep him safe!’ He realised he was shouting and pressed his lips into a thin line, quivering with annoyance, waiting for the boy to respond. A whole minute of silence passed. He turned on his heel and walked to the window, looking out at the night sky.

A slow-moving gray cloud drifted in front of the crescent moon, turning silver with the background luminescence, then floated past, unveiling the moon again. John sighed. Behind him, a throat was cleared. He did not turn around. The goblet was dragged on the tiles, the ringing sound echoing on the walls of the sealed chamber. John was unmoved. A soft cough followed. He continued to look out of the window.

‘That thing you did- in- in there’, the boy stammered. ‘It was- good.’

John sniffed unhappily, knowing that was all the acknowledgement he would get. Marginally mollified by the tacit expression of gratitude, he faced the boy again. ‘Let me attend to you’, he said softly, walking towards the young man. His sword was swept up again, pointed at him but he walked forward until the tip pricked his chest. Unafraid, he raised an arm and pushed the blade aside with the back of his hand. ‘Do not fear me for I will not hurt you.’

‘I fear no one’, hissed the boy.

‘I can see that’, John agreed, admiration softening his features. ‘Let me take care of you.’

Dark eyes scrutinised John’s face for the smallest sign of deception and John received the examination with an open gaze, blatantly studying the boy’s features in return.

The Emir’s description did not do the boy justice for his beauty was otherworldly. In John’s besotted view, the boy’s face was perfect. His noble blood was evident in his patrician features – a broad forehead over which tumbled soft, dark curls, sharp cheekbones that framed an angular face that softened into plump, sweet lips shaped like Cupid’s bow. A sharp jawline tapered down to a strong chin. And those eyes. Like doors to a vault, they guarded a dark secret that John hoped the young man would reveal to him. No matter how terrible the secret, John realised, with debilitating certainty, that there was little he would not do for this pugnacious stranger who, clad entirely in black with a pale face framed against a halo of dark hair, looked like the moon shining in the midnight sky.

John lowered himself to his haunches before the other man. ‘I wish to help you but I will not lay a hand on you until you permit me. Do you understand?’

The youth nodded again and they both settled on the floor, facing each other, never breaking eye contact. The silence hung heavy and John wearied of it.

‘What are you called?’ he asked.

The young man glared at John’s temerity.

The knight was unperturbed by the sharp gaze. ‘If you do not tell me your name, I shall have to make one up’, he smiled and waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he said, ‘I am John Watson of Northumberland. You may call me Watson, if you wish.’

The boy had either not heard him or chosen to ignore him. ‘John’, he breathed, as if testing how the name sat on his tongue.

Spoken in the young man’s voice and drawn out over two beats instead of one, his name sounded like…a call to come home. But then the boy spoke again and splintered John’s romantic musings. ‘Unsurprising.’

‘What is?’

‘Your name. An ordinary name, befitting an ordinary man’, he remarked, the insult stinging like the fangs of a serpent.

John’s hands instinctively balled into fists and he shut his eyes, feeling his reserves of forbearance quickly depleting under these well-timed and perfectly aimed affronts from this slip of a boy with the face of a woodland elf and the tongue of a scorpion. It took five deep breaths before he had leashed his anger and forcibly opened his eyes and hands. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Did you not hear the Emir?’

‘Nineteen, then?’ John asked.

The boy did not respond and John, inexplicably, continued talking about himself, ‘I left my home two summers ago to serve under King Richard as a Knight Hospitaller at Belvoir Fortress. I am headed to Acre now.’ He paused, not only for a reaction from his companion but also because he had surprised himself. The Emir had sought the same information, yet he had revealed none of it. With this young man, however, words came freely to his lips. The boy seemed uninterested, looking across the room at the starry sky visible through the window, but John knew he had heard every word.

‘That is not the entire truth, is it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You were not always a Knight.’

The youth turned to look at John and saw him cock a puzzled eyebrow. The pale cheek lifted in a fleeting smirk and the boy substantiated his assertion. ‘You were married once.’

‘Were?’

‘Your wife is no longer in this world. The chain of gold tied around your scabbard carries your wife’s wedding ring and yours. You joined the army as a Knight Templar but something must have made you renounce the Order. You later joined the Knights Hospitaller where your skills as a healer would be valued over your skills as a soldier.’ The boy paused but John waited for more. ‘Your right wrist’, the boy said. ‘You bear the mark of the Templars, the Agnus Dei, written into the skin of new knights upon initiation into the Order. You will bear it for life, although you are no longer a serving member of the Order.’

‘What makes you think I am a healer?’

‘Your manner, your moral principle. The way you… touched me. It was skilled. It was also gentle and- and kind’, the boy said, his voice drifting lower. He shook his head tightly. ‘And most obviously, you would _have_ to be a healer to be accepted into the Order of the Hospitallers’, the boy huffed.

John stared at the boy, incredulous. ‘Yes, I was married. My wife died in childbirth. My son died with her’, he revealed, once again surprised by his own uncharacteristic loquaciousness.

‘I am sorry’, the boy murmured.

John looked at his hands, spreading them in helplessness. ‘I held his small, lifeless body in my hands, powerless to save either of them. They were taken from me. It- broke me. A black malaise lay upon my mind. Many moons passed before I emerged from my sorrow. My life in Northumberland weighed me down like chains of iron. I wished to be unfettered, freed from my distressed past. The King called all able-bodied Britons to pick up arms and I became a Knight Templar. In my first year fighting in the Crusades, I was faced with their cupidity and certain secret practices that were incompatible with my principles.’ He jerked his head, as if recalling an unpleasant time. ‘Avarice I can overlook but their other proclivities were… abhorrent to me.’

‘What proclivities?’

‘Did you not hear the Emir?’ John retorted.

A smirk of understanding flashed over the boy’s face.

‘I left the Order and was to return home, to Northumberland, when I encountered a Friar in Jerusalem. He hailed from Cyprus and served with the Knights Hospitallers. They offered care to the sick and the poor and I felt a kinship with the Friar, with their work. I am a healer by vocation and a soldier by training. My new friend introduced me to the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, who accepted me into their Order.’

‘You could have hurt me’, the boy rasped; his breath caught and he doubled over coughing.

John waited until the hacking stopped. ‘I could have, but that would make me guilty of the very thing I despised in the Knights Templar.’

‘I was not defenceless.’

‘No, you certainly were not’, John chuckled softly, amused by the boy’s stout unwillingness to appear weak. ‘I suppose the hashish they gave you and your hands being tied behind your back were impediments of little concern.’

The boy’s lips curled. ‘I am no damsel in need of your assistance!’ he shot back.

‘A damsel you demonstrably are not, but you did need assistance.’

‘Were it not for the hashish, I would have freed myself in moments.’

‘Why does it trouble you to admit that you required aid?’

The plump lower lip pushed out in an involuntary pout and it was the loveliest thing John had seen in a long time. ‘I do not like to carry a debt’, the boy explained.

John melted. ‘You did not ask for my help. I offered it freely. Therefore, you carry no debt.’

The boy grunted, unconvinced, but John did not stop there. ‘I would like to check you for injuries. Will you permit that? Will you allow me to undress you?’

The boy’s head jolted up and alarm swam in the green eyes that locked with John’s. ‘I am a healer. I swear on my honour I will not hurt you or touch you in any way you deem inappropriate.’ The boy guardedly studied John’s face to confirm his intentions. John stared back with a confident, kind gaze. Finally, many moments later, the boy slowly tilted his head in consent. Immediately, John rose to his feet and held out a hand to help the boy stand up.

‘What is your name?’ he asked again, hoping that ordinary conversation would make his nervous companion relax.

‘Why is that important?’

‘I would fain know the name of the man I am about to unclothe.’

Silence again. Then, ‘Not yet.’

‘Very well. But there is something unusual about you. Something mysterious.’ Stony silence permeated the chamber. ‘You are a Briton, but not entirely.’ John tilted his head, as if looking at the boy from a different angle. ‘I believe there is Saracen blood in you.’

Green eyes shifted and darkened. Ah, he was interested. And impressed with John. Smiling faintly, John set about the task of undressing the boy. It was over very quickly because all the boy was wearing was the black tunic. He was naked underneath. And stunning. Perfect, John thought again, but for that bedevilling tongue. Then he cleared his throat because his groin had swelled impressively under his thin linen tunic, shifting and darkening the white fabric in that region. He noticed the boy noticing.

‘It is a natural physical reaction to physical beauty. That is all’, he assured the boy. ‘I promised not to touch you inappropriately and I will not.’

An interval of silence passed between them before the boy spoke again. ‘Do you think me beautiful?’

‘…Physically, yes.’

The boy’s lashes fluttered and John could not tell what troubled him more, the admission or the qualification. ‘Does that offend you?’ he asked.

Doubt swam in the boy’s gaze and John felt compelled to reassure him. ‘You are safe with me’, he said but the boy still did not respond. John decided an unequivocal clarification of his intentions was warranted. ‘I do not desire you’, he blurted and proceeded to sink deeper into his well-intentioned quagmire by artlessly adding, ‘I do not even like you.’

The uncomfortable moment became excruciating when the boy’s neck flinched, as though John had struck his face. Hurt flashed over that lovely face and John’s desire seeped out of his body, softening his hard flesh.

‘You are safe with me’, John stressed softly. ‘I will not harm you in any way. Please, believe me.’

A sigh of acceptance. Then a tight nod.

‘Good. That is good. I need to touch you to… to feel for wounds and broken bones. May I?’

The boy made a small sound of acquiescence and John began a careful examination of his body. Making sure to keep his touch chaste and impersonal, he ran his hands over silken skin, warm like a lake on a summer’s eve the poet in him suggested when a grunt of pain jolted him back into his more prosaic duties. ‘Forgive me. Does it hurt when I press here?’ he asked, gingerly stroking a long patch of darkened skin. He discovered more such patches over the boy’s back.

‘What did they do to you?’ he gasped, inexplicably wishing he could find every man who had hurt this body and rip him from limb to limb.

The boy looked away. ‘I was beaten’, he explained impassively, ‘with a wooden club.’ He closed his eyes, no doubt reliving the terrible experience.

‘The _bastards_ ’, John seethed, his lips twisting with vehemence. His fingers trembled on the warm skin under his hands.

The boy’s eyes flew open. He looked surprised at the passion in John’s declaration. ‘Why does my mistreatment at the hands of strangers anguish you so, when you and I are strangers ourselves and you have just now unequivocally stated that you do not like me?’ he demanded, a disbelieving sneer twisting his lips. John’s embarrassed silence prompted the boy to dig deeper. ‘Would you, I wonder, display this much concern for any man in my circumstance or does the crude pleasure your body experienced with mine inflate my worth? Perhaps you were not entirely truthful when you claimed not to desire me.’

So John’s half-truth had been obvious. Even with his senses dimmed by the hashish, the boy was more percipient than John had expected. This verbal tussle was exhausting to him and he rubbed a tired hand over his face. ‘I was entirely truthful when I claimed not to like you. You think me ordinary and my touch probably disgusts you after what happened.’ He looked at the boy. ‘But I can also see that this venom in your heart precedes me. What is it that makes you so bitter and untrusting?’

The guileless question took the boy by surprise because, for a very fleeting moment, he responded with equal candour. ‘The men I have met on my journeys have given me no reason to be otherwise. They desired my body or my possessions or both, and most would go to any length to fulfil those desires. It was only by my wits and my skill with a sword that I have remained unscathed. Until now.’

‘How did you come to be a captive of the Emir?’

The boy looked away. ‘I was on my way from Damascus to Acre when I was waylaid by three desert bandits. Mercenaries, they were.’

‘Damascus! Are you brave or just foolish? A Briton in Saladin’s city! Were you there for a friendly _visit_?’

‘That is not your concern.’

‘Very well. Please, continue.’

‘Two of the men tried to- ’, he paused and swallowed. ‘They tried, but I killed them both. The third man, providentially, preferred women and valued money over avenging his companions for he struck me down, gagged me and tied my hands. I fought back. He used his club to subdue me. I was brought to Tiberias and sold to the Emir for a hundred silver coins.’ The green eyes grew bitter. ‘Fornication with a virgin is a lucrative product. You know the rest.’

John held the boy’s gaze for a long time, amazed at what he had survived. He picked up the boy’s scarf and poured water from the pitcher onto the cloth, wetting it. ‘Here’, he said, holding out the scarf, ‘wipe yourself down.’

‘Is that it? Are your services at an end?’ the boy asked. ‘Or have you touched me to your satisfaction?’

‘I do not _serve_ you’, John shot back. ‘I _examined_ your body for injuries as a healer would and that necessitated touching it, for which I sought and obtained your consent.’ The boy waited arrogantly and John snapped. ‘I am not your manservant’, John growled out his frustration to keep from smacking his impertinence out of him. ‘You may clean yourself. Or not. The choice is yours.’

The boy wiped himself down in silence, cleaning off the evidence of their activities in the marquee. He tossed the cloth back to John.

John caught it and threw it on the floor, taking a moment to assume the mantle of healer once more. ‘You must rest now. Although the effects of the hashish are wearing off, it will take a few hours for it to leave your body completely. Put on your tunic and lie on the bed.’

There was, understandably, just one bed in the chamber as John was expected to use it to copulate with the boy.

‘And where will you lie?’ the boy asked, distrust writ large on his expressive face.

John decided that the verbal abuse the boy had inflicted had given him the right to indulge in a little teasing. ‘You are mine for the night, remember? My gift from the Emir’, he said with a grin but then immediately regretted this little jape when the boy’s expression darkened with fear.

His companion was not his friend and lurking behind his ostensible bravado was a lonely young man who had narrowly escaped being violated by a pack of rapacious men. And he had no reason to believe that John would not assault him while he slept. Contrition gnawed at him and he bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Forgive me. My attempt at humour was ill-timed. I shall lie on the floor.’ The boy did not respond, so John added, ‘If it will make you feel safer, I will sleep outside the room and you can bolt the door from the inside.’

The offer appeared to reassure the boy for he weighed John’s words and then shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. You may sleep on the floor’, he said and tossed one of two pillows to John.

The small, unthinking consideration touched John. ‘Very well. Sleep now.’

The boy lay on the bed, pulling the heavy coverlet up to his neck. A moment later, he turned on his side, watching John settle on the bare floor. The white linen tunic John wore afforded little protection from the twin cold fronts of the ground and breeze but John was a soldier and inclement weather did not trouble him. The boy would not look away, and John did not either. Their gazes locked. John wondered what the boy was reading in his eyes. In his face, John saw doubt and hope and, although the boy would never admit it, need.

‘These are dangerous parts’, John remarked. ‘Why were you travelling alone?’

‘Why were you?’ the boy shot back. ‘Did your army not want to travel with you?’

‘I no longer serve with the army. I am on my way home after serving in Belvoir Fortress with the Hospitallers for the past year. I came to Tiberias with two Templars. We were on our way to Acre to board a ship that would take us to Britain. The Templars had arrived here three years ago to serve under Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, but the holy city was recaptured by Saladin a year later. Their years of service and my- my circumstances qualified us for a return home. We were in the town market this morning, having our meals. A nobleman walked by, carrying pouches obviously weighed down by coin. It was the Emir.’ He sighed. ‘The Templars left me at the table to shadow the Emir. I followed and came upon them in a storeroom, robbing the Emir, slashing at him with their poniards when he resisted. I- intervened.’

‘You mean you wounded them and saved the Emir’, the boy surmised.

‘I had to. But it is nothing from which they will not recover in a few months’ time’, John smiled. ‘The Emir was grateful. And now I find myself conversing with an annoying young man whom I also, for reasons unfathomable to myself, find quite fascinating.’

A blush coloured the pale cheeks. ‘There is nothing fascinating about me.’

‘I am certain there is. For one thing, you are part Saracen.’

The subject of his origins was clearly off limits because the boy turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You fought off the Templars despite your own… handicap.’

John’s mouth tightened. ‘I am not handicapped.’

‘I misspoke’, the boy admitted, shooting John an apologetic glance. ‘Despite your injury.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Your left shoulder is stiff’, the boy stated confidently, still studying the ceiling. ‘You touch it unconsciously but you do not press into your flesh. You feel the scar.’ He paused, thinking. ‘A Saracen scimitar, I presume, given the apparent length of the scar. The blade entered your flesh and was then drawn up before being pulled out. By my estimation, you regained the use of your arm no more than two months ago.’ He turned on his side to face the knight again but did not meet his gaze, nervous and ready to retaliate if he were ridiculed.

John hissed in a breath through his teeth. Time slowed to a crawl while the boy waited and the knight touched his scar. ‘Extraordinary’, John finally murmured, his voice soft with incredulity.

Dark lashes flew up and green eyes clashed with blue. ‘Do you jest?’ the boy asked, astonished by John’s reaction.

‘I do not.’ He smiled at the boy’s unabashed surprise. A deep flush spread over the boy’s pale cheeks and his eyes fluttered away. An unexpected warmth spread under John’s skin. ‘I was- injured in battle and of less use to the King than I was when I arrived. I lost the use of my arm for nearly three months. A one-armed Knight makes neither a good soldier nor a good healer.’

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Why do you travel to Acre now? Haifa would have been closer to get to from Belvoir Fortress.’

‘I received word that the Friar, my friend, is serving in Acre with the Hospitallers. As it is unlikely that we will ever see each other again, I go there now to spend a few days in his company before I return home.’ For two years, John had steeled himself against thoughts of home but now he allowed himself a wistful sigh and briefly closed his eyes. When they opened, the boy was still watching him. John had not forgotten his question. ‘So…why are _you_ travelling alone?’

The boy’s mouth twitched in bitterness. ‘I want for both quantity and quality in fellowship.’

John waited but the boy would not say more. It seemed an uncomfortable subject and John wished to lighten the mood. ‘You might have more friends’, he chuckled, ‘if you were more sparing with your speech. I say sparing because it is a lost cause to ask you to be kinder.’

‘I neither have, nor do I wish to have _friends_ ’, the boy snarled, his expression souring but John’s heart warmed. The boy was desperately lonely and used viciousness to mask his vulnerability. And unprotected, his exceptional beauty put him in danger.

‘If you wish, you may travel with me to Acre’, John offered. ‘I will see you to your destination before I join the Knight Hospitallers.’

‘And in return for your kindness, am I required to hold my tongue throughout the journey?’

John laughed. ‘Have you seen the cross of a Knight Hospitaller?’

‘Hmm’, the boy affirmed.

‘It has eight points, each point symbolising an obligation or aspiration of the knight.’

‘I know them.’

‘Then you know that one of the obligations of a Knight Hospitaller is to endure persecution’, John said, his eyes crinkling in mirth.

‘Have I persecuted you?’ the boy asked, not pleased at John’s implication.

‘If you have not yet, I am certain you will’, John countered with a smile, enjoying himself too much. ‘But’, he continued, ‘as a soldier, I have learned to be both tolerant of unpleasantness and resilient to unbearable circumstances. I do believe I will survive conversation with you.’

‘So you find me unpleasant and unbearable.’

‘Do not forget extraordinary’, the knight chuckled. ‘Does it surprise you that I think you are all three things?’

The boy paused a moment. Then, ‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘How will you get the Emir to part with me? He paid a princely sum to purchase me from my previous captor.’

‘It is not your concern.’

‘It most definitely is if it means I am to be burdened with greater debt.’

John sighed. ‘I have some coin.’

‘Your wages?’

‘My wages. Money holds little value for me.’ The boy continued to stare at him, so John relented. ‘You carry no debt on my account. I voluntarily offer you provisional companionship, to be terminated when we reach Acre, with no expectation of recompense. Do you accept?’

‘Very well, I will accept your _provisional_ companionship.’ Even in his time of need, the boy was imperious.

‘Good’, John grunted over a smile. ‘Rest now, for we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

He did not know when they both fell asleep. But when he stirred, it was still night, he still lay on the floor but his body was warm under the thick coverlet.


	5. Chapter 5

Miniscule specks of sand and dust danced undetected over the playful breeze wafting through the chamber, temporarily revealed when they crossed translucent sheets of golden light streaming through the window, and then floated beyond into invisibility again. John’s cheeks felt warm under the calming rays. He had slept soundly after that one time he had stirred in the middle of the night, the unexpected comfort of the heavy coverlet lulling him into five hours of agreeable somnolence. His eyes opened and then immediately squeezed shut. Momentarily blinded by the morning sun, his lashes fluttered as he cleared his blurry vision and adjusted to the brightness flooding the room. His acerbic acquaintance stood by the window, gazing out at the city, his profile sharp against the azure sky.

‘How are you this morning?’ John asked, his mouth stretching around a yawn. His throat was scratchy with sleep.

‘Unharmed, to a degree; free of the hashish’, enumerated the boy without turning around. ‘Clean, for I have bathed. You should, too.’

He wore a different long-sleeved robe of heavy dark cloth that fell to his ankles. His posture was alert, vital. Freshly washed curls glistened in the sunlight and his long neck was like a column of alabaster connecting his lovely face with his body and disappearing inside the upright collar of his tunic.

Neither John’s body nor his mind cooperated with his principles for he could not stop staring; his imagination conjured up very vivid and rather wicked thoughts which had the unfortunate effect of stirring the flesh between his legs. ‘So beautiful’, he blurted.

The boy looked over his shoulder at John, an eyebrow raised.

‘The- the sunrise.’

That earned John a withering, cynical look. ‘Indeed’, the boy intoned and turned to survey the city.

A discreet cough drew John’s attention to the door where he espied Imran waiting with his hands respectfully clasped over his stomach. ‘Sabah al-khair, Sir Knight’, he greeted John with a bow.

‘Sabah al-noor, Imran.’

‘Your bath is prepared, my lord’, Imran said, shooting the young Briton a spiteful glance. ‘Your companion also _demanded_ a bathe.’ His eyes darted from where John lay on the floor to the bed, on which lay only one pillow.

John inwardly shook his head at Imran’s childish curiosity and rose from the floor. ‘I will return shortly’, he said to the back of the boy’s head and waited for a response. When none came, he sighed and turned to Imran. ‘My companion is about as tall as your father. Will you show me the kindness of sparing a set of clothes for him that would be suitable for travel? Perhaps a scarf, a tunic, a pair of trousers and boots? We have a long journey before us.’

‘Sir Knight…, do you- do you intend to… take him with you?’ inquired Imran, scarcely disguising his anguish at the thought.

‘I do, Imran. I have promised to accompany him to Acre. Can I count on your assistance?’ the knight asked.

‘But I cannot! I have already disobeyed Father by allowing him’, he indicated John’s companion with his chin, ‘to bathe. Father would- ’, Imran started to say but John stopped him.

‘You have no cause for worry, Imran. I will speak to the Emir’, he assured the consternated young Saracen who, it was evident, was torn between obeying his father and pleasing the object of his admiration. John helped the infatuated boy decide by smiling at him enchantingly and ruffling his sleep-tousled hair for added effect. Behind him, his young companion, who had decided to take an interest in the proceedings, rolled his eyes.

The helpless Saracen boy’s mouth dropped open, overpowered by his attraction to the knight; with a sigh, he capitulated. ‘Very well, Sir Knight, I shall make sure he is comfortably and appropriately attired.’

‘You are most kind, Imran. I will not forget this.’ He noticed his companion watching them both with what he read as derision.

The knight followed the Saracen boy down the hallway to the bath chamber where he once more stepped into the fragrant waters of the bath tub and cleaned himself. Imran left him alone for his bathe and returned when John rang for him. He was unable to mask his disappointment when John opted to towel himself down. The knight, however, knew that the boy would, in the process of towelling John, subject his body to more than a few unsubtle caresses and, for a reason he would not acknowledge because it was so very implausible, he wished not to feel Imran’s touch on his bare skin. When he was dry, the boy glumly handed him his cleaned uniform and helped him once again become a Knight Hospitaller. Fully dressed, he strode down the hallway back to the bed chamber where Imran pushed open the door.

John’s companion still stood at the window but at the sound of the door, he turned around. The sight of John in his black surcoat with knee-high boots accentuating the swell of his calves must have affected him because his lips parted. John walked over to the table on which his weapons were arrayed; he clasped the leather belt tight around his trim waist and sheathed his sword into the scabbard that hung from it. The boy at the window was transfixed. A wet tongue slipped out to slowly lick a plump lower lip and then retracted as the lovely lips came together, the derision from before replaced by something else altogether, something that John thought very closely resembled the sentiment in Imran’s eyes. But that could not be.

John’s own gaze flicked appreciatively over the boy’s form and he gave silent thanks to Imran. His companion now wore a light green tunic that reached to the middle of his thighs; his legs were clothed in loose black trousers that were tucked into black boots. Around his neck curled a white scarf that would serve as a headdress to protect him from the heat of the desert and could also be pulled up to cover his face in the event of a sandstorm. A corded silk sash was tied tight around his waist, accentuating the boy’s long, slender proportions. John rubbed his face. Journeying with this young man was going to be a hardship unlike any he had faced before, and not only because of the boy’s truculent disposition.

‘Imran, you have taken good care of me and my frie- companion’, he said, catching a fleeting expression of discomposure on said companion’s face. ‘How may I show my gratitude to you, young friend?’

‘No, Sir Knight! I do not presume to earn your gratitude. If you would only carry with you pleasant thoughts of me, I could not ask for more, my lord’, Imran blabbered.

The young Briton chose that moment to break his silence with a scornful sniff and John admonished him with a sharp glower. ‘That I certainly shall, Imran. I shall not forget your kindness. Would you take me to the Emir now?’

‘Please follow me, Sir Knight’, Imran said and headed down the hallway in the opposite direction, leading John and his contemptuous companion to the great hall where the Emir sat in one of his lavish armchairs.

‘Sir John!’ the Emir exclaimed, rising to his feet when his guest entered. ‘You look rested, satisfied. And unscathed! I surmise my gift was well received. And well behaved!’ he laughed, looking beyond John at the boy who stood a few feet away with Imran. The Emir’s brows lifted. ‘The slave appears dressed for travel.’ His voice hardened. ‘I do not understand. Imran?’ he said, demanding an explanation from his son.

The boy cowered but John at once interjected. ‘Emir, Imran only did what I asked.’

‘Explain.’

‘I asked Imran to equip him with the clothes you see. I- I wish to release him from your… employ.’

The Emir’s face was hard as stone. ‘Employment entails compensation. He is a slave and may expect only food and clothing from his _owner_ , namely me.’

John was equally unwavering. ‘In that case, I wish to release him from your ownership.’

‘So you wish to purchase him from me.’

‘If that is the only way to secure his release, then I shall purchase him from you.’

‘I did not expect that he would be _that_ satisfactory’, the Emir laughed.

Through the corner of his eye, John saw the boy flinch and steeled his gaze when he addressed the Saracen again. ‘He is a fellow Briton, Emir. It would ill behove me to leave him here as your captive.’

‘How long do you suppose it will be before you tire of his gifts?’

‘You mistake my intentions, Emir.’

‘Do I? What will you do with him, then?’ the Emir pressed.

‘I have promised to accompany him to Acre where we will part ways. I understand you paid a hundred silver coins for him. I can offer you seventy-five gold coins’, he said, holding out a heavy bag that jangled when he shook it.

‘Your Crusader wages?’

‘My Crusader wages’, John affirmed.

‘Ah… but you will agree that his beauty is worth far more than seventy-five gold coins, Sir Knight.’

John’s lips tightened into a thin line. ‘This is all the coin I carry, Emir.’ He had no wish to argue with his host. The safety of the boy was paramount. ‘If there is anything else on my person that would make up the deficit, I shall gladly part with it.’

‘Coin is not something I desire or need. Your sword, however, is exquisite’, observed the Emir, eyeing the bejewelled pommel under John’s palm.

John’s hand possessively tightened over the hilt and he closed his eyes, as if considering his choices. When his eyes opened, they were like blue ice. A decision had been made. With a defiant tilt of his chin, he looked up at the Emir. ‘Will you surrender all claim to the boy if I gave you my sword?’

‘I shall. Gold and silver I have in abundance. Boys like that I can get anywhere’, the Saracen said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘But a sword like yours is a rare find, indeed. I have always wanted to own a Crusader sword and yours is exceptional. Does it have a name?’

‘ _Invaincu_.’

‘Ah. That is a word from the French language but I do not know what it means.’

‘Unconquered’, John’s thus far silent companion interpolated.

‘The slave has a tongue!’ the Emir sneered.

‘It was a gag, stuffed into his mouth and tied tight around his head, which kept him quiet before, Emir’, John shot back.

The Emir ignored John’s accusation. ‘I trust he put his tongue to better use than mere speech last night.’

John, in turn, ignored the lewd taunt. ‘Are you agreeable to the terms, Emir?’

‘Very well, Sir John. I shall leave you with your coin but lighten your belt. I would consider _Invaincu_ a fair exchange for the slave.’ The Emir held out his hands. ‘May I have it?’

John carefully unwound the gold chain with the two rings from the scabbard and tied it around his belt, running his fingers over the rings with tenderness. Then he unhooked the scabbard and held it out to the Emir.

‘You own the boy now, Sir Knight. I hope he is worth it.’

‘Only one of us sees this as a transaction, Emir.’

‘Yes, the other sees it as duty’, scoffed the Emir, but there was also a hint of admiration in his tone. His expression warmed. ‘You saved me. For that I shall always be grateful. Now you save this boy, this stranger. You say you do this because he is a Briton, but I suspect you would do the same for a Saracen boy for you have a good heart, John Watson of Northumberland. As a token of my goodwill and that you may carry somewhat pleasant memories of your time in Tiberias, I give you my scimitar.’ The Emir unhooked the scabbard from his belt and held out his sheathed weapon to John. ‘ _Muqaddar_ is yours, if you will have it.’

‘Destiny’, John translated. ‘Shukhran, Emir.’ He accepted the sword.

‘There is no need to thank me, Sir Knight. I do believe I have the advantage in this exchange. It is a very fine sword you carried.’ He unsheathed the blade. ‘Exceptional’, he breathed, admiring the perfect craftsmanship, the smooth, shiny steel, the intricate carvings on the golden pommel, on one side of which was set a large sapphire. ‘Like the eyes of its last master’, the Emir said, admiring the stone. ‘I sound like my son’, he chuckled in embarrassment and slid the sword back into its scabbard. ‘Imran would never forgive me if I now trusted you to anyone’s care but his own’, the Emir laughed. ‘I will, therefore, have him prepare a camel for your companion, and equip it and your horse with food and water and a tent. It is no more than thirty kilometres to Acre, but the path can be treacherous and the weather capricious. You might need to make camp overnight. When you reach Acre, let the beast free. It will find its way back to me. Yusafir amina, Sir John.’

‘Al-wada, Emir’, John said, raising his hand to his face in the Saracen manner and turned around. ‘Come’, he said to his companion who followed him as he strode out of the mansion.

‘Sir Knight’, Imran called out. ‘Please wait at the door. I shall be there presently’, he panted and ran off to prepare their transportation.

John climbed down the thirty steps from the mansion door to the sandy bed at the foot of the stairs. He looked out at the city, so beautiful the previous night when it was wrapped in the soft blanket of the dark sky and still so beautiful now, when it lay spread out by the sparkling waters of the Sea of Galilee, shimmering under the brilliant sun and cloudless blue heavens. He reflected on the events of the past day. So much had happened in that one day. So much had _changed_. His chest felt heavy, but it was not unpleasant. And it was not sad. What had been an empty space since the loss of his wife and unborn son was no longer vacant. But he could not identify what, or who, had taken up residence there. Or perhaps he did not dare.

Imran approached from their left, leading two beasts by their halters – a placid dromedary and John’s black horse. The camel’s back was covered with a thick blanket over which sat a saddle. Packets of food and heavy, bulging waterskins hung over the beasts’ shoulders. Two rolled tents sat on the camel’s rump, held in place by thick ropes that ran down across its belly. John smiled; Imran obviously did not want him to have to share a tent with his companion.

‘I- I trust this is satisfactory, Sir Knight. I…’, Imran stammered. He yanked on the camel’s halters and it obediently folded its legs and lowered itself to the ground.

‘Imran… my young friend, shukhran jazeelan’, John smiled, clasping the young Saracen’s shoulder. ‘You have my gratitude.’

He stroked the broad, glossy neck of his horse and it nickered quietly, welcoming its master’s touch. A gentle breeze played with the majestic black mane, tousling the long dark strands; the beautiful head nodded several times and then dipped to touch John’s neck with its large, shiny muzzle. John laughed and grasped the noseband, pulling his steed’s head down so that he could press a kiss to its lovely forehead. He looked over at his companion. ‘This is Starlight. Say hello’, he smiled.

‘Starlight?’ the boy sneered at the romantic name.

An indignant whinny made it plain that Starlight objected to the rude manner in which its name was mentioned; the horse tossed its head up, large brown eyes fixing the impertinent speaker through long lashes. Its forelock had shifted in the movement and revealed its forehead where a burst of white sat in stark contrast to the lustrous black skin, like an irregularly-shaped star against the night sky. Like Starlight.

‘I am surprised you did not name him Bucephalus.’

‘Starlight’, John rebutted, ‘is a _lady_.’ The affected gravitas in his voice brought an involuntary smile to the boy’s lips.

‘Hello, Starlight’, he said and reached out to stroke the powerful black shoulders. ‘I shall not forget that you are a _lady_ ’, he added with a soft laugh; Starlight nickered appreciatively and nudged the boy’s neck with her muzzle.

John watched in quiet amazement. Starlight had always been notoriously discriminating about whom she allowed to touch her, unafraid to nip at unwelcome hands. Yet here she stood, nuzzling this stranger she had known for no more than a few minutes. This instinctive affinity between beast and boy did not bode well for John. They looked at him as if they understood. The boy’s lips curled in triumph but his eyes were soft.

Imran’s distress grew but John did not notice; he stuck a foot in the stirrup and swung the other leg over his steed. His companion grasped the saddle horn and mounted his camel. The beast slowly rose to its feet, jostling the boy. ‘Hold on’, John cautioned. ‘Camels tend to sway a lot and it is easy to fall off.’

‘Hold on’, the boy retorted. ‘Horses tend to buck a lot and it is easy to fall off.’

Young though he was, Imran could tell that this prickly exchange was underscored by more than simple hostility and he grew distraught. Looking up at John despairingly, he murmured, ‘I wish you safe travels, Sir Knight’, and then turned and ran up the stairs into his home.

\-----

The Crusader and his companion turned their mounts around to face the gates of Tiberias and gently prodded the beasts, with their heels, into a comfortable trot. In a little while, they had exited the bounds of the city and were on their way to Acre.

The boy brought his camel close beside John’s horse and cleared his throat. John turned to look at him.

‘You gave up your sword…’, the boy said softly, his voice trailing off.

‘And you state the obvious’, John teased, his mirthful eyes fixed on the boy.

The boy looked away. ‘Yes, I- it is obvious’, he stuttered in embarrassment. ‘But why would you do that?’

‘Were you not within earshot of the Emir when he stated his terms? I had no choice.’

‘You always have a choice!’

‘Yes, we all do. I made the choice that ensured you would be free.’

‘But-’

‘It is merely a sword. Let it go.’

‘I cannot! That sword was given to you by your parents the day you turned sixteen.’ Reading John’s question in his eyes, he mumbled his explanation. ‘I might have glanced at it.’

‘You mean you pulled it out of its scabbard while I was asleep and _looked_ at it to read the inscription on the blade.’

‘Yes, I- I did’, the boy admitted, looking down at his saddle. ‘I omitted to sheath it again, or you would not have known.’

John grinned. ‘That is how I knew.’ He waited but the boy seemed tongue-tied. In the pale fists that had tightened to balls of white skin and sharp bones around the reins of his camel, he read the boy’s disbelief that John had, without a second thought, given up something that, undoubtedly, held great personal value for him. ‘You owe me nothing’, he stressed. ‘There is no debt between us. Whatever I did was of my own volition.’

Green eyes flew up and stared at John in astonishment. ‘You freed me, you…saved me…’, the boy breathed, ‘of your own volition.’

‘I surprise even myself at times’, John laughed, attempting to push away other conflicting sentiments that confounded him.

The pale throat bobbed as the boy swallowed. ‘Perhaps you are changeable.’

‘Changeable?’

A speculative frown curled the beautiful brows. ‘Might it be that you- like me?’

‘Might it be that hashish runs in your blood still?’ John countered, breaking out into a harsh chuckle this time. Cruelty would unequivocally disprove the existence of any other emotion.

A frown furrowed the boy’s forehead. Slighted by the suggestion of impaired reasoning, he yanked on the reins of his camel and jolted it into a fast trot, leaving a chortling John behind.

John lightly prodded his heels into Starlight’s sides; throwing her head back with an exultant neigh, she broke into a gleeful gallop and very easily caught up with the trotting camel. The boy glared at John. John grinned. The boy snorted and jerked his head away, facing straight ahead. They spoke little for the next hour, lulled into a hypnotic apathy by the sun beating down on them and the monotonous, soporific gait of their mounts. John straightened his spine and arched it into a delicious stretch. He looked over at the boy.

‘Cover your head’, he said. ‘And make sure to drink your water. It is a few hours yet before we reach Acre.’

The boy pulled his scarf over his head and leaned down to grab a waterskin. Uncorking the canteen, he put it to his lips and drew in the rejuvenating liquid in huge gulps, his throat jumping with each swallow. John swallowed, but for an entirely unrelated reason, and tore his eyes away from the sight of smooth skin pulled tight over the long, corded column of the boy’s neck.

‘Do not drink it all at once’, he rasped and helped himself to a few sips of water.

Silence once again settled between them. By midday, the sun was overhead and had grown unbearably hot. The boy seemed faint. Clearly he was unaccustomed to the harsh clime of the Holy Land for his head drooped until his chin hit his chest. He was starting to slip off his saddle and John had to repeatedly call out to him or even reach out to grab his shoulder to shake him back to alertness.

John finally decided a brief halt was in order. ‘Let us make camp’, he said and pulled Starlight to a stop. He alighted and waited for the boy to do the same.

The boy clicked his tongue twice and patted his camel’s neck. The beast snorted and dutifully folded its limbs to settle on the ground. With the grace of a dancer, he slipped off the saddle.

John untied one of the two tents that were rolled up on the camel’s rump. The boy started to untie the second tent.

‘No need. One tent should suffice’, said John. ‘We will be on our way as soon as you have regained your strength and the sun has begun its descent.’

The boy did not respond but helped John set up the tent.

‘What are you called?’ John asked.

The boy scowled at him.

‘A name would be most helpful’, John pressed. ‘It makes the simple task of waking someone up considerably more difficult if one does not know the other’s name.’

‘I was not falling asleep.’

‘Granted, but you have been close to falling _unconscious_ for the past two hours.’

‘It is nothing I cannot manage.’

‘You will forgive me if your words do not give me confidence.’

The tent was readied and John entered it with his companion. He had untied the packets of food and waterskins which Imran had given them.

‘Lie down. Rest. Have some water. And here is some food’, he said, holding out a piece of bread on which he had placed cubes of lamb meat.

The boy must have been exhausted for he did not retort. Instead, he attacked the meal, making small, unthinking sounds of pleasure as his hunger and thirst were gradually appeased. When he was finished, a satiated yawn expanded and emptied his lungs.

‘When did you last eat?’ John asked. He realised with a stab of remorse that the previous night he had not asked if the boy had eaten. It was a safe assumption that not much care would be given to the welfare of slaves, and that included feeding them.

‘It does not matter. I have eaten now.’

‘You are weary. Rest awhile. I shall wake you when it is time to leave.’ John spread his cape on the sandy floor and took off his surcoat, folded it into a small, thick square. He placed it on the ground at one end of the cape.

Lowering himself onto his side on John’s cape, the boy gingerly placed his head on the makeshift pillow made from John’s surcoat, eyes shuttering softly as he sank into the welcoming softness. It must have been John’s imagination that the boy turned his face _into_ the fabric and inhaled, as if he were breathing in the scent of John. He fell into a deep slumber almost instantly.

Almost, because he whispered one word in the last sighing second before he surrendered consciousness.

‘Sherlock.’

                      

* * *

 **A/N** :

  * I simply love _Invaincu_ as the name for John’s sword, as those who have read Time after Time (Tears under a blue moon) might have guessed.
  * _Muqaddar_ is actually from the Urdu language which is more closely related to Hindi than Arabic, but I’ve used it here in an Arabic setting because I love that word too!
  * Now I just have to find a use for _Mohabbat_ , i.e. Love. Oooh, Urdu is so beautiful.




	6. Chapter 6

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

The name played in a continuous loop in John’s mind. A singular name for a singular boy, he mused. He was seated at the entrance to the tent, legs folded and knees pulled up to his chest, encircled by his arms. The boy – Sherlock, he corrected himself – lay with his head on John’s surcoat, lost to the world. John’s eyes glided over his slack form, long slender limbs stretched out on John’s cape, his young face sweet in repose, full lips parting every so often over soft exhales. John’s heart began to knock oddly against his ribs and he compelled himself to survey the uninteresting and utterly desolate sandy sea of gold that lay all around them.

A long interval filled with nothingness crept by slowly while the boy slumbered and the sands shifted desultorily in the light breeze. The camel’s attempt at relaxation was disrupted by Starlight trotting around him, snorting and bobbing her head, apparently trying to strike up a conversation with him; the dromedary appeared by turns intimidated and intrigued by her vivacious self-assurance. He sniffed several times in annoyance, kicking up a small cloud in the sand under his nose, but Starlight persevered. Ultimately, he succumbed to her genial overtures with an exasperated snort and they began a clumsy exchange of sniffs, grunts and nickers. An uneasy friendship had formed. John smiled, watching this preamble to their wordless platonic association as he reminisced about the mating game he sometimes played with other men.

Both women and men had always come to his bed freely. But with the men, there was a tantalising undercurrent to the seduction because it was forbidden – the covert glances, circumspect words and exploratory touches that coaxed them out from the confines of their mores so that he could introduce them to maddening pleasures of the flesh they had not imagined possible. His own initiation into the world of male joining had been at the hands of a kindly sword-fighting instructor, not much older than himself, in the Armoury of Castle Northumberland. The feeling of another man’s body had been a revelation, leaving him hungry for more. And more. Until his marriage.

His betrothal had been a political arrangement between two powerful families, but even though his wife was not of his own choosing, she was a good woman and a deep affection and respect grew between them. John gave her his unwavering fidelity and born of their joining was son who never drew breath. The gaping hole left by their passing had made him cold to women and all affection; since that unhappy event, he had sought ephemeral solace in the arms of nameless men, which opportunely aligned with the Crusader mandate of celibacy.

His thoughts turned to the boy lying in the tent and his initiation to the dark secrets of physical intimacy that had taken such a different path from John’s. His heart lurched when he imagined how much worse it could have been for Sherlock. The thought of Sherlock being passed around the Emir’s tent sent a chill up his spine.

Just then, his mare nickered loudly and tossed her head in the direction of a small dark spot that had appeared over the top of the large sand dune they had traversed on their journey from Tiberias. Squinting in the brightness, he peered at the speck that, it gradually became apparent, was actually two specks. As the specks drew closer and larger, he discerned two Saracen men riding brown horses and their destination appeared to be this tent. John’s right hand instinctively reached for the hilt of _Invaincu_ but closed, instead, around _Muqaddar_. He rose to his feet just as the riders pulled up to the tent, their horses rearing with the sudden break in speed. In the background, Starlight stomped the sand, her agitated nicker rising to a loud neigh in reaction to the hostility that filled the air.

‘Give us the boy’, the older, bearded Saracen ordered John. The other Saracen stayed silent.

‘What boy?’

A lascivious grin spread over the younger man’s face. ‘The boy who no doubt lies inside your tent’, he said in a reedy voice. ‘Or do you still seek to draw pleasure from his body?’

John responded by drawing out _Muqaddar_.

‘Do not be a fool’, said the bearded man. ‘There are two of us and one of you. We can easily kill you and take the boy.’

Unimpressed, John tilted his head. ‘I invite you try’, he icily retorted, drawing out his poniard with his left hand.

The younger Saracen dismounted and brandished his scimitar. Wasting no time, his bearded companion lifted his arm and brought his sword down on John’s shoulder. John’s right arm swung up and sparks flew when _Muqaddar_ clashed with the descending blade. Nimbly dodging a second blow, John twisted his torso to shield himself from the other Saracen who was now stalking him on foot. His poniard came up just in time to catch the edge of that man’s scimitar and thrust it off; John adroitly feinted to the left, evading a second strike and with a hard back-handed swipe, slammed the pommel of his poniard into the man’s chest, causing his assailant to stagger backwards and lose his footing.

His respite was short-lived because the bearded Saracen again confronted John, slicing the air with his sword and assaulting John from his vantage point on his horse. Skilful footwork saved John from injury as he ducked below the sweep of the Saracen’s blade, grabbed a hold of his tunic and wrenched hard. The man was dragged off his steed and crashed into the soft sand.

Taking advantage of that man’s momentary fumbling, John charged at the younger Saracen, who had regained his footing and was running towards him. He leapt up and struck the side of the Saracen’s head with the hilt of _Muqaddar_. The man crumpled to the ground, dazed by the blow. John’s sword was raised over his head, ready to strike the death blow, when the older Saracen, who was now on his feet, shouted and sprang towards him. John swung both _Muqaddar_ and his poniard up and lunged at the larger Saracen, his objective being to puncture the man’s ribs, when a second shout distracted him.

‘John!’

His head swung around at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. Fear for Sherlock’s safety tempered his typical audacity. Time slowed, in John’s mind only, as he noted each individual aspect of his current circumstances.

_Sherlock stood at the entrance to the tent, the sleep quickly draining from his face which was now frozen in terror. Behind John, the younger Saracen was on his feet and pitching towards him, sword pointed at his back. Before him, the bearded Saracen had lifted his sword to strike a final blow to John’s head. Sherlock appeared to have quelled his initial trepidation for he had dashed out of the tent towards the younger Saracen. John conducted a lightning-quick assessment of the situation in its totality and concluded that their best chance was for him to first kill the larger Saracen, who was closer to him, and then dispatch the younger Saracen before he attacked Sherlock._

‘Run!’ he shouted to Sherlock while lithely dropping to one knee, evading by a hair’s breadth the swinging blade that whooshed over his head. His own arm thrust out and plunged the blade of _Muqaddar_ into the unprotected belly of the large Saracen at an upward angle. The blade pierced the man’s lungs and he coughed up blood, his arms flailing as his body tottered backwards. In a flash, John retracted _Muqaddar_ from the flesh of his attacker and spun around to deal with the younger Saracen who was still a few yards away, chased by Sherlock as he rushed towards John. His sword was pointed at John who lurched at him with equal fervour but his advance was abruptly stalled by a heavy weight slamming down on him, sending him crashing into the sand. The large Saracen had fallen forward on John, pinning his right arm under his body and giving the younger Saracen an unexpected advantage.

A startled inhale filled John’s mouth and throat with sand. His eyes burned. He spasmed on the ground, coughing, his stinging eyes tearing up until his vision cleared enough to see Sherlock grab the Saracen from behind. Extricating himself from under the larger motionless Saracen as quickly as his strength would allow, John struggled to get on his feet and stumbled in the direction of the Saracen, dropping the Emir’s scimitar in the effort. Compromised by the sand that still lingered in his lungs and his eyes, he nonetheless held up his poniard and weakly parried the blows from the Saracen’s sword.

The Saracen deemed Sherlock a more immediate and effectual threat than John and used his larger frame to overpower the unarmed boy, disabling him with a well-aimed flat-handed strike to his solar plexus. Sherlock fell to the ground, stunned and coughing.

‘Leave him alone!’ John growled to Sherlock’s antagonist in a valiant but miserably ineffective attempt to protect Sherlock. The Saracen stepped around John, whose vision was still impaired, and smugly plunged his sword into his side. With a loud groan of pain, John dropped to his knees, then slowly collapsed onto his back. He heard Sherlock yell and saw him launch himself at the Saracen. Then his world turned black.

\--------

His eyes fluttered open and he found himself in a dark tent. Under his head was the pillow made from his surcoat. His hands were folded over his chest. He opened his arms and touched the ground, feeling the fabric of his cape. Agonising pain radiated from his side, pulsing through his body with aggravating regularity and increasing intensity. His hand shivered as he reached down to the wound and gingerly touched the area, expecting to come away with fingers covered in blood. Instead, he encountered cloth. He lifted his head up from his pillow, the tendons in his neck hardened into two taut columns with the strain, and drew his gaze down to where Sherlock’s scarf was tied around his waist to staunch the flow of blood. The Saracens’ swords were placed beside him. His head dropped back onto the pillow.

A vague scene floated into his consciousness but he could not determine, with any certainty, whether it was his imagination or a real memory. In it, Sherlock was asking him for forgiveness for leaving him.

Fear and misery twisted into a thick rope that knotted itself around his heart. The tent flaps were lowered but Sherlock was not inside. Gnashing his teeth and hissing with the debilitating pain, John pushed himself onto his stomach; he crawled on his elbows to the entrance and managed to push up the heavy cloth just enough to be able to study his surroundings. The wind howled eerily across the vast expanse, whipping up the sand into many little tornadoes that spiralled up and dissipated before they could gain any momentum.

A short distance away, but out of earshot, Sherlock leaned over the body of the larger Saracen, now dead, and took something from the pouch tied around the man’s waist. John heard the jangle of coins. The younger Saracen also lay dead beside his companion. The sand below the two bodies was dark with their blood which had all but dried up in the punishing heat. John had just given silent thanks that Sherlock was safe when the boy rose to his feet and walked purposefully towards Starlight, _Muqaddar_ dangling from his sash.

Sherlock clasped Starlight’s noseband to pull her head down and whispered something in her ear; she twitched her ears and bobbed her head in enthusiastic understanding. Sticking a foot into her stirrup, Sherlock fluidly swung his other leg over the saddle and man and beast immediately took off across the sand, a streak of pale green and black against the yellow backdrop. The camel watched the disappearing duo grow smaller as they raced away into the distance and then looked over at John, doleful eyes commiserating with him.

Weakened by the loss of blood, John had been unable to muster enough strength to call out to Sherlock before, and now it was too late. All he could do was watch helplessly as his thankless companion and faithless steed abandoned him here, in this lonely desert where he would most likely face his mortality unless, by some miracle of fate, he regained enough strength to drag himself to the camel, mount it and keep breathing until he reached Acre.

Sherlock’s desertion lanced through him deeper than any Saracen’s blade ever could, cleaving his trust. Yet he forgave Sherlock for wanting to escape. He was grateful to him for the small consideration of wrapping his scarf around John’s wound and moving him inside the shaded tent. It must be an inadequacy in John that his sincerity had failed to inspire anything beyond that show of charity in the boy. Resting his forehead on his arm, the knight gave himself up to the mercy of the desert. In his surrender he prayed he would find peace.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Several hours must have elapsed before John regained consciousness for the tent was still dark when he woke and, he realised with mild alarm, the flap at the entrance was tied open, offering a window to the indigo sky against which the setting sun hovered over the gray horizon. He found he had been moved back inside the tent, laid out on his cape and the makeshift pillow. Reaching a cautious hand down to the wound in his side, he encountered a fresh, padded bandage which was not Sherlock’s scarf and underneath which his skin felt a little damp and tingled with a peculiar, soothing coolth.

The dozens of questions raging through his mind came to a screeching halt when he noticed an oblique shadow pacing outside the tent. The shadow paused. John slowly raised himself onto an elbow and reached out, with his other arm, for a Saracen sword and gasped when his hand closed, instead, around a beloved hilt. _Invaincu!_

If he thought the joy he felt upon hearing a familiar whinny from outside the tent was more than he could bear, he was wrong for his soul soared when a disembodied but familiar voice said, with familiar and entirely enchanting arrogance, ‘I rather expected to be greeted with a simple thank you instead of a sword brandished in my face.’ The voice was followed by the speaker who stopped at the entrance of the tent, framed against the backdrop of the twilight sky in the loveliest silhouette John had ever seen.

A crashing torrent of joy, gratitude and ineffable affection knocked him back onto the pillow. ‘Sherlock!’ he gasped.

‘That is my name’, Sherlock said, his expression inscrutable. He clasped a waterskin with one hand and bore a plate of food in the other.

The knight’s heart once again stuttered into an odd cadence as Sherlock bent down to place both articles beside John and hovered, as if unsure of what to do next. John resolved his indecision.

‘Sit with me’, he whispered.

Sherlock settled on the ground next to John, not looking at him. The tent was quiet but for the soft breathing of the two men. Sherlock watched the sand at his feet. John watched Sherlock. Finally, Sherlock extended his pointer finger and started to draw figures in the sand, his brow furrowed in concentration. John’s breathing slowed to a hypnotic, languid rhythm. Every few minutes, Sherlock’s eyes cast furtive glances at him and, locking with John’s eyes, which never wavered from his face, would darken and awkwardly return to the picture he was creating. Neither man made a sound for fear that the paralysing intimacy of the moment, shimmering like an ethereal crystal between them, might shatter from the smallest intrusion.

Starlight, however, was oblivious to the delicacy of the scene inside the tent and had no such reservations. Something must have irked her for she let out a loud neigh, the vulgar interruption ruining the exquisite moment.

John blinked and cleared his throat. ‘How did you fend off the other Saracen?’

Sherlock’s response was impassive. ‘I killed him.’

‘Who were those men? They came looking for you specifically. How did they know you?’

Sherlock’s voice turned cold. ‘It was the man with the beard who sold me to the Emir.’

John’s hand tightened around _Invaincu_. ‘The _bastard_ died an easy death’, John hissed. ‘Had I known, I would have protracted his suffering.’

Sherlock’s lashes swept down and he turned his face away, shuttering himself from observation.

John could see that he did not wish to dwell upon his captivity and changed the subject. He had not meant to fault Sherlock but he did. ‘You left.’

The green eyes opened. ‘I did.’

‘Did you ask me to forgive you for leaving me?’

‘You were unconscious at the time. I did not think you had heard me.’

‘I heard you.’

Sherlock studied his picture in the sand.

‘You came back’, John said.

‘I said I would.’

‘I- I did not hear that.’

They settled into another period of Sherlock creating a picture in the sand and John watching Sherlock.

‘You came back…’, John repeated, incredulous that he was lying in this tent with this extraordinary young man sitting beside him.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes. ‘Is this going to be a regular recurrence in our conversations?’

‘What?’ John asked, bemused. Then he grasped what Sherlock meant – he was stating the obvious. ‘No’, he smiled sheepishly. ‘Just this once. Forgive me.’

‘Very well.’

‘I- I saw you leave. I was certain you would not return.’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. ‘You- expect me to trust you after how we met, yet you seem unwilling to return that trust.’

The truth of Sherlock’s accusation stung. ‘I would not blame you for leaving’, John mumbled.

‘I know.’

John waved his hand at _Invaincu_ and then at his bandage. ‘How…?’

‘Think. It is not that complicated.’

‘You obviously went back to Tiberias. How did you get my sword? Did you steal it in the Emir’s absence?’

‘I did not have to, for you left in your wake a besotted young boy who, despite his obvious abhorrence of _me_ , gladly handed me _Invaincu_ when I told him you had sent me with instructions to specifically seek him out.’

John chortled softly. ‘I must have, if you say I did.’

‘That- that was a falsehood’, Sherlock admitted. ‘You had, in fact, said none of those things, but I decided that employing an untruth was justifiable in the circumstances. And, in the spirit of fairness’, he shrugged, ‘I returned _Muqaddar_ to him.’

John hummed in approval. ‘And my bandage? You have applied a salve.’

With a lift of his eyebrow, Sherlock challenged John to identify the ingredients. The knight smiled, confident in his own skills. ‘I suspect you have used elderberry bark, balsam fir oil, beeswax and pine rosin. And I think I detect a hint of calendula.’ He permitted himself a self-satisfied grin.

The smallest relaxation in Sherlock’s jaw told John that he was right.

‘Your intellectual acuity is undiminished by the loss of blood’, Sherlock commented, but his tone was underscored, incredibly, by fondness.

John basked in that unexpected realisation until Sherlock reprovingly added, ‘But you forgot aloe.’

‘Aloe. Of course’, John beamed. ‘You did not tell me that you are a healer.’

‘I have _some_ knowledge of the healing arts. Your _devotee_ ’, he said, his expression souring just a little on the word, ‘was quite accommodating of my requests for herbs and tinctures once I recounted the events of the afternoon. News of your being at death’s door overwhelmed him and it took the blubbering boy a while to compose himself.’ Sherlock scrunched his nose. ‘Time was of the essence and I had to perforce pat him on the back a few times to speed him through his grief.’ He looked down at his right palm. ‘It was _most_ unpleasant.’

John conjured up an image of a young Imran shedding copious tears and Sherlock insincerely comforting the boy. He laughed at the thought but then winced with pain.

‘This much merriment should suffice for now’, Sherlock snapped. ‘The salve’s potency is augmented by the addition of aloe; it will sting but within one night, your wound should have healed enough to allow you to ride to Acre. If you insist on undoing my work, I _will_ leave you here tomorrow and head for Acre alone.’ The harshness of his words was completely absent in the tone of his voice.

‘I may have believed you before’, John said, his eyes smiling at Sherlock, ‘but not anymore.’

Sherlock tossed his head like an arrogant colt. It was an admission and they both knew it. ‘Your admirer sent this food.’

‘My admirer has a name.’

‘I do not recall it’, Sherlock lied glibly.

‘I think there is very little you forget’, John laughed and winced again.

Sherlock waved a regal hand, summarily terminating that topic. ‘You will eat now’, he decreed, the epitome of brisk efficiency as he pointed to the plate with a piece of bread and cubes of mutton. ‘I do not wish to be encumbered with a wounded knight and I do not enjoy playing nursemaid to grown men. You will rest and allow my salve to help you recover. Or you will make your own way to Acre. The choice is yours.’

The words were despotic but they were issued by soft lips and with feigned severity; John was bewitched.

‘I shall obey your every command, Your Majesty’, he said, only half teasing.

Sherlock’s expression darkened. ‘I am not amused’, he groused. His lower lip pushed out into an affronted pout and John was helplessly charmed.

‘Should that not be “ _We_ are not amused”?’ John needled the boy. He grimaced as he tried to sit up.

Sherlock immediately shifted to kneel beside John and grasped his shoulders, helping him sit up, leaning against the tent pole. He waited while John adjusted himself on the floor and when he was convinced that John was as comfortably positioned as his wound would allow, he erased his picture in the sand with his palm, rose to his feet and stomped out of the tent.

John shook his head, still laughing softly, and devoured the deliciously spiced meat, his stomach welcoming the much-wanted sustenance. It felt like a long while before Sherlock returned to the tent. He sat on the ground at the entrance to the tent, admiring the sunset.

‘Are you still upset with me?’ John asked.

Sherlock grumbled in response. His scowl was firmly in place and John was hopelessly captivated.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked and received another grunt in response. ‘Where were you? What were you doing?’ he pressed. ‘You were gone quite a while’, he said guilelessly, revealing more than he would like.

‘It would appear you grow unsettled in my absence’, Sherlock taunted.

One side of John’s lips lifted in a slanted smirk. ‘Would you rather I did not?’

It was not the denial Sherlock was expecting and his frown deepened. Clearly he was perturbed by the implication of John’s question but did not know how to respond.

To John’s entranced eyes, he only looked lovelier than John had thought possible. Like a painting. A tranquil, dark figure against the beautiful, celestial canvas, promising the observer a sanctuary of warmth and constancy. A knot of conflicting emotion grew tight inside John.

The sun was a huge ball of red, only the top hemisphere of which was still visible over the horizon.

‘What were you doing?’ John asked again.

‘Feeding the beasts.’ His eyes lifted to meet John’s. ‘All three of them’, he specified and John thought he detected a small twinkle in the green irises that watched him.

John threw his head back and chuckled. The sound came from a place deep inside him, a quiet and private place that he only opened to those closest to him. ‘So you think me a beast.’

‘Would you rather I did not?’ Sherlock retorted. But his simulated annoyance melted into the smallest and softest of smiles which disappeared almost immediately.

The silence grew uncomfortable. John cleared his throat. ‘Sherlock.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Your name. It is unusual.’

Sherlock appeared wary. ‘What of it?’

‘What lies behind it? It is like no name I have ever heard before.’ Sherlock flinched, as if readying himself for an insult, but John gentled him by adding, ‘Just as my friend who bears it is like no one I have ever met before. Utterly unique. Utterly mesmerising.’

Dark eyes studied John. ‘…Friend?’

‘Friend.’

Sherlock swallowed and his cheeks flushed a warm pink. A pang of affection pulsed through John’s heart. Then another pang. And another. This reaction to Sherlock was beginning to be most problematic.

‘I was given this name by my father, in honour of our homelands.’

‘Homeland _s_?’ John stressed the terminal fricative, questioning the plurality of the word.

‘Homelands’, Sherlock affirmed. ‘Sherlock is my middle name. I have two more names, one given to me by my father’s father and the other given to me by my mother.’ He stopped abruptly, as though he had revealed more than he had intended.

‘What are they?’

Sherlock flashed him an uneasy glance. ‘Not yet’, he said in a quiet voice.

‘I understand.’ John turned away.

‘One day, perhaps.’

‘Or never. It is fine.’

Sherlock stared at him.

‘It is _all_ fine’, John assured him.

It was not a lie, for in the unshuttered blue gaze, Sherlock read that John would be content knowing just that one name and anything else Sherlock would share with him when he wanted, and John would never ask for more than Sherlock was willing to give him.

An interlude of silence followed. Then John spoke again.

‘I am grateful to you.’

Sherlock shrugged.

‘You could have taken Starlight and never returned.’

‘How could I _not_ return?’ Sherlock asked, his voice rising just the slightest bit. His eyes were grave and his expression troubled, as if he worried that he might say too much. ‘I had no choice.’

John understood. His own expression turned sombre. ‘It seems we are both quite constrained in our choices.’

The gravity of what had been left unsaid crackled through the charged air between them but John was too weary to restore normalcy, and safety, to their dialogue by making it ordinary again. And even if he had the strength, he lacked the will. A fundamental change was taking effect inside him, shaking his very core. It terrified him. John Watson, a man who had never known fear all his life, was now afraid.

So it came as a surprise when Sherlock led them past the impasse.

‘I was constrained by Starlight’, the boy said.

John looked up. ‘Starlight?’

An impish gleam twinkled in Sherlock’s eyes but John could tell it was affected because those beautiful lips quivered with the effort. ‘She would never run away with me and leave you behind.’

‘No?’ John’s own smile was resigned. “ _And you?”_ he thought.

‘Never’, Sherlock murmured, and for just a moment John was convinced that Sherlock was not talking about Starlight. But Sherlock had directed his gaze towards the setting sun. His smile disappeared and his head dropped. ‘You are too… essential.’ His lashes lifted and his eyes met John’s. ‘To her.’

The elucidation pricked, and John sacrificed his romanticism at the altar of realism. ‘I am glad to at least have inspired loyalty in a beast.’

Sherlock tittered. It was the perfect sound, soft and endearing.

Intoxicating warmth bloomed through John. ‘You are so lovely, so-’, he started to say but froze when he saw apprehension flood Sherlock’s face. He had to say something to reassure Sherlock of the propriety of his intentions. Instead, the events of the afternoon came flooding back and a vow fell from his lips. Again. His throat ached. ‘If it is the last thing I do, I will never allow you to be harmed, not by me, not by anyone else, as long as I am with you, as long as I am able.’

Sherlock’s eyes glittered with a strange light and he looked directly at John, seeking the truth in his words. John thought he must have found it, for he turned away and blinked. Hard. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Once. Twice. A third time.

It was too much. John needed Sherlock to respond. He was desperate for something, a word, a sound, some sign that he understood. Sherlock said nothing for too long and John started to wish for a rebuff, an insult, anything. Because this stony reserve felt like a categorical rejection of John’s sincerity, worse than anything Sherlock could say.

Sherlock cleared his throat, but his voice was still choked when he said, ‘I am equally glad to have inspired such loyalty in a beast.’

The facetious rejoinder did little to staunch the relief blossoming inside John. Sherlock held John’s gaze for a long time and they stayed like that, not smiling or speaking or moving, just looking at each other, their eyes speaking tomes for which their lips had no words. Sherlock turned to watch the sun slowly dip below the horizon, the golden glow fading to silver as the moon rose in the dark heavens which were strewn with a million sparkling stars. John watched Sherlock.

They did not speak of the second tent. John did not know when he fell asleep but he was awakened during the night by a column of heat shifting beside him. He did not need to open his eyes to know the source of that heat and, as he drifted back to sleep, a faint smile played on his lips.


	8. Chapter 8

‘John! Wake up, John!’

A large hand gently patted his cheek, unintentionally jostling his pounding head and shooting spikes of pain through his skull. John groaned and tried to open his eyes. The simple act took immense effort and when his lashes lifted a fraction, his vision was assaulted by blurry white light, bright as the sun. Pain throbbed in his temples and with a hoarse cry, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes and turned away from the glaring light.

A soft palm curved around his nape of his neck. ‘John!’ said a soft voice. ‘You are too warm. John, please, open your eyes. Something is wrong!’

John moaned softly when the hand soothingly ran over his clammy forehead and pried his eyelid open. A blinding sheet of light pierced his dilated pupil like a luminous icicle. Mercifully, a dark form leaned in front of him, blocking the sun. His eyelids dragged open just enough to see a concerned ashen face, framed in a halo of dark curls, peering down at him.

‘Shrrrlk’, John slurred.

‘Yes, John! Wake up!’

‘I- cannot. Can-not mo-ove.’ The earth spun under him. The tent spun around him.

‘John! How do I help you?’

John had never imagined he would have to analyse his own condition to determine the cause of his malaise. His breathing turned to hoarse huffs. ‘What do you see?’ he wheezed. ‘In me… tell me…everything…’

Sherlock steadied his voice and rattled off his observations. ‘Your irises have grown dark, too dark. The black has swallowed the blue. You skin is hot and covered in unseasonable perspiration, soaking through your tunic. Something is seeping out of your wound but it is too watery to be blood. Your heart thunders.’ His feigned control shattered when John shuddered and let out a long moan. ‘I do not know how to help you, John! What do I do? I think you have been poisoned. I cannot let you- please, John!’

‘Poi-sson, yesss’, he hissed, his breaths coming in heavy gasps. ‘Lips…nails… eyes?’

‘Your lips and nails and eyes, yes- yes’, Sherlock stammered, trying to be useful and give John all the information he needed. He briefly observed John’s mouth and lifted up his hands. ‘They are turning a dull yellow’, he said shakily. ‘What must I do, John? I do not know! I was certain the salve would heal you!’

Thoughts and memories churned in a turbid vortex, descending from John’s mind to his stomach in a dry heave that racked his shaking body. His eyes rolled back into his head. He felt the pull of oblivion, dragging his consciousness down to murky depths where chaos ruled.

‘John!’ Sherlock cried. ‘John, please! Open your eyes. Please!’

‘Belladonna…’, John gasped just as the darkness descended upon him.

\--------------

John was roused by the repetitive scrape of coarse cloth against his cheek; his body rocked and bounced in a nauseating, fast-paced rhythm. The sun beat down upon him and the sands shimmered in the heat, yet his skin shivered with an unusual chill against which his heavy cape, placed around him over his tunic and surcoat, was proving ineffective. Pain stabbed through his head, pulse after dizzying pulse; he shifted and winced as more pain lanced through the wound in his side. The contents of his stomach surged up into his throat and he lurched forward. His stomach, however, was empty and the convulsion ended with a loud, dry retch. A strong arm tightened around his chest and pulled him back into an erect position so that he was leaning against the staunch body behind him. Blinking away the haze, he feebly attempted to comprehend his current unfamiliar surroundings.

His legs were astride the back of a black horse. Starlight, he remembered. His trusted steed. A distant memory of a second yellow beast lingered but the camel was absent. Starlight’s saddle had been removed and the comforting warmth of her body seeped through the black fabric of his stockings. Tightly fitted behind his legs, pressing into his limbs, was another pair of thighs, longer than his and clad in loose black trousers. A strong arm crossed his torso and protectively held his chest, the slender fingers of a large hand curving around his ribs to keep him steady. The light green sleeve had been pushed up to the elbow, revealing a pale, lithely muscled forearm against the black fabric of his cape. His protector’s other hand held Starlight’s reins and rested on her back, between John’s knees. John’s fingers clasped the wrist before him and he dropped his head, chin touching his chest. How was it that he felt so safe while his body was being devastated from the inside?

‘Look up’, said a calm voice from behind him. ‘You must keep your head up or you will lose consciousness again.’

‘Sherlock…’, he wheezed, recalling the incidents that had brought them here. ‘Are you unhurt?’

Sherlock chuckled. It was a harsh, unhappy sound. ‘You are at death’s door and you are concerned that _I_ might be hurt.’

‘I must know…’

The fingers on his ribs moved, stroking him gently. He thought he detected a quiver in Sherlock’s voice. ‘I am unhurt, John.’

A wave of relief suffused his limbs, warm like an unguent. ‘You are here’, he said.

‘Where else would I be?’ was the affronted response. The arm tightened around John’s chest. That touch must have reached inside him for he felt it quiet his heart.

His head rested on Sherlock’s body and an involuntary, fond smile spread on his face, the stretch of lips arrested by a small tear in his skin. He ran his tongue over the numb ridges of his parched lips and tasted a small spot of blood over the tear. ‘Water’, he gasped.

‘In front of you’, said Sherlock.

John looked down and found a waterskin seated between his thighs. He swallowed in anticipation, groaning when dry throat rubbed against dry palate. His vision swam and his head lolled back against Sherlock’s chest.

At once, Sherlock pulled on the reins; Starlight came to a complete stop. He handed John the bridle. ‘Hold this’, he said, leaning forward, his front pressing closer to John’s back, and lifted the waterskin to John’s lips, uncorking it holding it there while John drew deep gulps of the life-giving liquid.

When John’s thirst was quenched, he pulled his lips off the mouth of the waterskin and moved his face to the side. ‘Thank you’, he whispered.

‘Do not thank me yet’, Sherlock said, his voice tight with concern. ‘You still suffer from the effects of the belladonna. The Saracens’ swords must have been smeared with the poison. I overlooked that! I- how could I overlook that?’

‘Sherlock, it is fine.’

‘It is _not_ fine!’ Sherlock shouted. ‘Had I known, I would have brought back additional medicinal herbs from Tiberias and you would not be- suffering like this!’

‘Sherlock…’

‘I must get you to a healer with skills far greater than my own elementary education in the subject affords me.’ He tugged on the reins and Starlight broke into a fast trot.

‘I wish our paths had never crossed’, Sherlock confessed softly, the breath from his words puffing against John’s earlobe.

That was unaccountably upsetting to John, even though he knew Sherlock was wont to tactlessly reveal his opinions with little regard for his audience’s sensibilities. Hurt welled inside him and lodged in his throat. He pushed his torso up, trying to sit erect and distance himself from Sherlock, breaking their physical connection. But he was too weak to resist the arm that held his chest and the other that ran up the reins, still holding them, and curved around his waist to pull him closer.

‘What have I done to deserve these cruel words?’ he asked in a soft, pained voice.

‘I do not say that to be cruel.’

‘Do you jest?’

‘I do not.’

‘Then I do not understand.’

A deep sigh ruffled John’s hair. ‘I am to blame for bringing those murderous Saracens to your door.’

‘It was Fate, not you, who brought the Saracens to me, but I cannot regret that, for Fate first brought me… to you.’

That evoked a sharp inhale, a swallow and then fingers pressing into John’s ribs. ‘You are most annoying.’

‘Am I?’ John chuckled weakly.

‘Your intellect is already deficient but if your physical strength were not also weakened by the poison that runs in your blood, I would push you to the ground this very instant.’

The fond admonishment warmed John from the inside. He shifted his head on Sherlock’s chest and rested his cheek in the comfortable dip between his shoulder and collar bone. ‘You must not ever blame yourself for anything that happens to me.’

‘And you must not ever labour under the misapprehension that you are intelligent.’

‘Now _that_ is cruel’, John laughed.

‘It is not. The Saracens attacked you because of _me_. Had we never met, you would now be in Acre engaging in commonplace colloquy with your Friar friend. You would be- happy.’

John’s eyes closed. ‘I did not know it three days ago, but if we had never met, I would go to my grave incomplete.’ The indiscreet admission slipped from his lips but held safe in the haven of lithe legs and tight arms, John did not care. A smooth cheek rubbed gently against his hair.

Sherlock’s quiet voice said, ‘I suggest you cease all conversation and use your strength to stay alive until I can get you to Sha’ab.’

‘What is in Sha’ab?’

‘Who.’

‘Very well, who is in Sha’ab?’

‘Sufyan, one of the most learned and skilled healers in all of Saladin’s empire. He will cure you.’

‘I trust you.’

‘I know. You must rest now. We should arrive there in an hour.’

John relaxed his neck and slumped against Sherlock, closing his eyes and giving himself up to the soothing cadence of Starlight’s gait and the reassuring solidity of Sherlock’s body.

\---------

Indistinct conversation and palpating hands pulled John out of his palliative stupor. His eyelids fluttered open and blinked a few times before his vision cleared. He found himself in a chamber, a structure of stone, not a tent. Large torches stood in each corner of the chamber whose walls were bare but for Arabic verses that hung in dark frames. A sweet fragrance wafted up to his nostrils from beside his pillow. Turning his head, he saw a small conical dabqaad made of silver, with intricate designs carved into the metal around small openings in the pyramidal lid through which streamed fragrant smoke emanating from the burning bukhoor. Looking down at his body, he saw that his arms lay over a sheet of deep blue that was pulled up to his neck. His fingers clutched the soft fabric of the sheet – velvet. Underneath it was a heavy coverlet. His skin felt warm and dry, his heartbeat was steady and his strength was slowly returning to his fatigued limbs.

He was gripped by a sudden, irrational fear that they might have been captured again by Saracens and his stomach seized in response, his torso rising up as if to retch, but a gentle hand touched his chest and stilled him. He fell back on the bed, exhausted, and looked down at his body. The gnarled hand was connected by a stooping body to a wrinkled face made with aged skin, burned to a deep brown by the sun, thick white eyebrows, an aquiline nose, shapeless lips and one keen eye. One, because the other was white. Blind, John surmised.

‘Good’, said the old man. He spoke the Saracen language. His kindly face arranged itself into an even more crinkled smile. ‘The healing spell worked.’

‘Spell?’

‘Yes, you were afflicted with the Spell of Death. The boy’s medicine would have cured you of the poison were it not augmented by the Spell of Death. You are only alive because he brought you here in time.’

John ran his tongue over his lips. The old man held out a goblet of water.

‘My name is Sufyan.’

John’s expression held gratitude and admiration when he addressed the old man. ‘Sherlock spoke very highly of you. Shukhran, mudarris.’

The old man acknowledged John’s honorific with a smile but shook his head. ‘You make me feel old by according me so much respect. Sufyan is the name my father gave me and that is what everyone calls me.’

‘Sufyan’, said John. ‘Shukhran…shukhran.’

‘Shukhran Allah’, Sufyan nodded. ‘It was a strong spell but you will survive.’ The old man’s piercing gaze locked on John. ‘You are a rare soul, Sir Knight. Like no Christian I have met.’

‘I am a most ordinary man, sir, with a humble past and unexceptional future. I was a Crusader until three days ago; now I am just a simple civilian on my way home.’

‘Who waits for you, Sir Knight?’

‘No one. No one waits for me.’

‘Ah, you have yet to open your eyes’, said Sufyan, a cryptic smile playing on his lips.

John resented the old man’s implication. ‘My eyes are open, sir, and I can see more than you can’, John said.

The old man chortled, his lips pulling up in mirth to expose gums as pink and toothless as a baby’s. ‘You see, but you do not observe. He is an exceptional spirit, your young friend, is he not?’

‘He is. Matchless in every way.’

‘Exceptional, but not matchless. Our texts, the Eastern texts, teach us that spirits recognise kinship with other spirits without the need for a single word. The two of you- ’, Sufyan paused, looking through John as if he were glimpsing the future. ‘Yours will be a memorable story’, he presaged.

‘You are wrong. Our _story_ , such as it is, ends in Acre where we will part ways’, snapped John. The old man’s implication of a lasting association with Sherlock too closely echoed his own futile wishes. ‘There is no story beyond that’, he asserted more to himself than the old man, smashing his own hopes with the sledgehammer of realism. ‘There never was.’

Sufyan shook his head patiently. ‘Life will unfold your story for you’, he said. ‘Any control you think you hold over Life is an illusion, for she will make your story as long or as short as she pleases’, he added, an enigmatic smile reflected in the twinkling in his one good eye. Both eyes stared at John for a few moments, as if looking into his future. His expression turned grave and he closed his eyes a moment. He reached into a pocket in his tunic and pulled out an amulet attached to a black string. ‘Take this.’

‘What is this?’

‘Open the amulet when you feel abjectly, wretchedly helpless. It contains a small scroll that will tell you what you most need to know in that moment.’

‘How will I know there is not another moment of worse helplessness in my future?’

‘Have faith that you will know.’

‘How will the scroll know what I need most?’

‘Have faith, Sir Knight.’

John was unconvinced but still took the amulet from the man’s lined palm and tied it around his neck. The man’s arcane words had left him with a vague sense of unease and his eyes floated shut but opened again when he heard Sherlock’s voice. At once his head shifted on the soft pillow and saw Sherlock standing outside the chamber, speaking to a Saracen man dressed in the garb of a commoner.

‘Salaam alaikum, my lord. You are- ’, said the man in the Saracen tongue, studying Sherlock’s face. ‘I saw you in Damascus… in the Sultan’s palace. Pardon me, my lord’, said the man with a low, obsequious bow. ‘I did not immediately recognise you.’

‘That is enough’, Sherlock answered in the Saracen language, his stature imperious. ‘You will keep your voice down and hold your tongue.’

Intrigued, John strained to hear the exchange better. The deference in the man’s words and tone of voice made him very curious.

‘My lord, but you are-’

‘I am, and you will say no more.’

‘No, my lord, I shall not, if that is what you wish.’

‘It is. Will you assist me in caring for my friend?’

The man shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with Sherlock’s question.

‘It is alright. I will understand if you do not wish to assist a Briton.’

‘No, my lord, you misunderstand. That your needs are couched in a request is what gives me pause. I am your servant, my lord. You have but to command me and I shall gladly do your bidding.’

‘Very well, then’, Sherlock smiled. ‘I command you to assist me. I will need fresh clothing for me and my friend, clean bandages, water, meals and a second bed to be moved to this chamber.’

‘It shall be done, my lord’, said the man, beaming up at Sherlock. ‘I shall return presently with everything you require.’

‘What are you called?’

‘My name is Haidar al Haq, my lord.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Shukhran, Haidar.’

The man bowed to him; then Sherlock turned to enter John’s chamber.

The old man looked up at Sherlock. ‘Alhamdulillah, your friend will live’, he said.

‘John, I see you have met Sufyan. Has he been entertaining you with tales from his life?’

‘He has been entertaining me’, John said, ‘with tales of _my_ life, tales that have not yet come to pass.’

‘Yes, Sufyan is known to do that’, Sherlock smiled. ‘He believes he can see the future. The people of Sha’ab have decided to find it charming.’

Sufyan's toothless grin was luminous. ‘It was a strong poison, made ten times more potent by the spell, but the knight will survive.’

Sherlock sniffed. ‘He would be a poor Crusader if he were felled by a little poison and a spell. How do you feel, John?’

‘Ravenous. I could eat an entire cow.’

‘That bodes well’, said Sufyan. ‘Hunger means your recovery has begun.’

‘Good, that is good’, said Sherlock. ‘I have asked for meals to be provided.’

Both men looked at the convalescent man but John looked at Sherlock. That lovely face and those sensitive eyes that told him so much more than Sherlock would have liked to reveal. Sherlock seemed similarly unable to look anywhere except at John. His relief bloomed over his pale skin in a flush of colour and warmth.

Between them, the old man rolled his one good eye. ‘The knight’s condition is still quite unstable’, he interjected, splintering their voiceless connection. ‘You may leave if you must, banil aziz’, he addressed Sherlock, ‘but he must stay here so that I can watch over him until he recovers completely.’

‘ _We_ are not leaving until he is able to walk on his own two feet’, Sherlock decreed. ‘I do not recall volunteering to serve as a crutch for a wounded soldier.’

John’s eyes crinkled with fondness. ‘Indeed, you did not, my lord’, he smiled.

The old man’s bushy white eyebrows rose and he looked at Sherlock questioningly.

Sherlock shook his head.

The old man nodded. ‘This is right.’

Sherlock did not appear to be convinced by the old man’s assurance. ‘How do you know?’

‘Waladil aziz, you know our spells and charms are more than mere incantations, and they manipulate more than just the corporeal body. They sooth the mind, they heal the spirit. I have touched his spirit. This is right.’

John shifted in his bed, unsettled by this ambiguous exchange about him.

With a grimace and a grunt, Sufyan lifted himself to his feet. Sherlock immediately grasped his shoulders to assist him but Sufyan brushed him off with a genial, toothless grin. ‘I have only seen ninety-two summers. I have another twenty in my future, I am certain.’

‘As am I, Sufyan’, smiled Sherlock. ‘Shukhran, mudarris.’

‘You young people take excessive pleasure in making your elders feel old and disguise it as respect’, Sufyan groused. ‘Tell him, habibi’, he told Sherlock and hobbled out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone with John.

\-----------

‘Sherlock.’

‘John.’

Sherlock’s arms hung limply at his sides, hands balled into fists. With Sufyan gone, his emotions had risen from inside him and now bubbled below the surface. A deep flush had spread over his neck and cheeks and his eyes flicked over the room. He approached the bed and sat down on the edge. His long fingers played with the blue velvet and his eyes flitted over John’s recumbent form.

‘You saved me. Again’, John said wryly. ‘I am in your debt.’

The softness in Sherlock’s eyes bled into his voice. ‘I cannot allow you to renege on your promise to accompany me to Acre. It appears that I- I must keep you safe in order that you may keep me safe.’

The truth of that simple statement singed them both like a brand.

‘I have not been very efficacious at keeping my promises’, John commented, a factual assessment of his companionship since they left Tiberias.

Sherlock was smoothing out the folds in John’s sheet but it felt to John as if he were stroking John’s arm. Long lashes lifted and looked at John from under hooded lids. ‘No one before you has ever made me a promise.’

That should not make John glad but it did. Sherlock’s cheek lifted in a lopsided smile. He knew. John melted.

‘You sent the camel back to the Emir, I presume.’

‘Yes. You were in no condition to ride Starlight alone. I had to take off her saddle for we could not both fit in it. She was not happy about carrying me initially but then understood when she saw you. She is…a fine steed.’

‘She seems to like you too.’

‘I am very likable.’

‘No, you are not!’ John disagreed.

‘I am not’, Sherlock laughed with him, but although the amusement in John’s eyes belied his words, John thought he detected a trace of sadness in the green eyes. ‘We will stay here until you are well. Sufyan estimates three days.’

‘He must be right.’

‘Sufyan is always right.’

John's eyes narrowed. ‘You knew Sufyan would be here. He treats you like a son. You walk these halls as if you have been here before.’

The unasked questions made Sherlock uncomfortable and turned his face away from John.

‘Who are you, Sherlock?’

Alert green eyes met his but the beautiful lips were silent.

‘You are not just some ordinary Briton wandering the Holy Land. I knew the first day I beheld your face that Saracen blood ran in your veins. You were in Damascus, presumably alone. Only a fool Briton who does not value his life wanders in Saladin’s city. But there is a connection to Damascus that I do not yet see. Earlier, you were speaking to a man outside this chamber. He said he recognised you from the Sultan’s palace and accorded you the esteem due to a member of royalty. What were you doing in Damascus, Sherlock?’

Sherlock held John’s gaze but said nothing.

‘I ask you again, Sherlock. Who are you?’

 

* * *

**A/N**

Arabic words courtesy of Google and AO3 reader Sarah (thank you!!). If someone wants to offer better alternatives, please do!

  * Alhamdulillah: Praise be to God
  * Banil aziz, Waladil aziz: Dear boy
  * Mudarris: Teacher
  * Dabqaad: Incense burner or Censer
  * Bukhoor: Frankinsence
  * Habibi: My darling or Sweetie




	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to the wonderful QuinnCliff. Smile, lovely girl, and keep smiling.

_‘I ask you again, Sherlock. Who are you?’_

\-----------

They stood at a crossroads and knew it. Sherlock’s features were solemn, his brow creased faintly as he considered his words.

John waited for him to speak. And waited. Sherlock’s reticence was evident in the way he silently studied his hands. John had crossed a line, asking Sherlock to reveal more than he was ready to share.

‘It is alright, Sherlock. Forgive me for asking… I can see that-’

Sherlock cut him off. ‘You see nothing, John.’

John sank into silence again, waiting.

‘My father is a Crusader. Or was. I do not know if he still lives.’

‘Surely you can find out.’

‘I could, if I knew his name.’

Oh. ‘And your mother?’

‘My mother… was a Saracen.’

The unequivocal use of the past tense was troubling. ‘Was?’ John asked tentatively.

The skin around Sherlock’s eyes tightened. ‘She breathed her last. Thirteen days ago. That is why I was in Damascus.’

John reached out a hand to Sherlock’s lap to gently cover his clenched hands.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wistful. He struggled to give voice to his anguish. ‘Samaarah was her name. It means the colour of the moonlit desert.’

‘Such a beautiful name.’

‘It did not do her beauty justice. My father, she told me, used to call her Samaa. Heaven. She was his heaven.’ Sherlock’s lips were set in a thin, bitter line. ‘My uncle says that is where she now lives, Heaven, and that she watches over me. My uncle is given to romantic notions. He knows that she is gone!’

To state the truth like that, to face its inescapable, terrible finality, must have been more than Sherlock could bear because he clasped John’s hand. John squeezed his fingers in reassurance.

‘Sherlock…’ There was an ache in John’s voice.

Sherlock tried to compose himself. He shook his head. ‘No, it is alright. It is- She went peacefully and I was by her side until the end. I was able to bury her as a son should, in accordance with her beliefs.’

His voice was taut and his breathing shallow, but the depth of his sorrow was evident in his welling eyes. Sherlock blinked, sending a trail of large wet droplets down one cheek.

The tears came as a surprise to him because his eyes widened. ‘I do not know whence these tears come’, Sherlock said softly, ‘for I am aware that all lives end. Some before their time.’

John shattered. Tragic memories of the loss of his wife and child came flooding back; he had faced the irrevocability of death. His mouth opened to speak but his throat would not cooperate. He needed to make a connection with Sherlock, to show him with his touch that he understood.

Lifting one hand to tenderly cup Sherlock’s cheek, he wiped away his tears with his thumb. He held his hand there, gazing up at this young man of exceptional gifts and courage who had watched his mother die, been publicly violated, very nearly sold into sexual slavery and almost taken captive again. The horrors of the past two days must have come crashing down on him because more soundless tears followed, to Sherlock’s astonishment, and he unconsciously pressed his cheek into John’s touch, seeking solace in the warmth of his calloused palm.

Affection surged through John. This lovely, sad, angry boy, wise beyond his years, had saved him, a dispirited, melancholy soldier, from the darkness of his own soul, healing him in more ways than either of them realised. And the knowledge that he was now trusting John with his vulnerability was humbling.

Sufyan was wrong. Sherlock was matchless.

‘I thought I had no grief left inside of me’, Sherlock whispered, ‘but it appears I was mistaken.’

John yearned to take his pain and suffer for him, for the sight of Sherlock like this broke his heart. He did not know how long he held Sherlock’s face like that before the tears stopped falling. Sherlock had covered John’s hand with his own and was stroking the back of John’s fingers with his thumb. His bereft gaze met John’s but the knight at once averted his eyes, not wanting the boy to see his own anguish. He was not quick enough, for the forefinger of Sherlock’s other hand lightly pressed on the crease between his brows and immediately, John’s forehead smoothed.

Forlorn eyes observed him dolefully. ‘Why does my loss weigh upon you so?’ Sherlock’s ingenuous question slammed into John with the hammer of an unnameable truth.

‘I cannot say’, John answered truthfully. ‘But it does.’

He saw a small jump in Sherlock’s jaw and a subtle hardening in the green irises.

‘We cannot both be sad. This will not do’, Sherlock murmured, in a tone so hushed that he might have been speaking to himself as his rational mind came to the fore and allayed the turmoil in his emotional heart. His reddened lips were pressed together.

One hand still covered John’s on his cheek; he placed his other hand on John’s chest, feeling it rise and fall with every breath, feeling the strong beat of his heart within. John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. They stayed like that, touching, drawing strength from each other until bereavement gradually yielded to fortitude in both men and Sherlock deliberately straightened his back.

Then his glance slowly, very slowly turned playful. ‘Perhaps it is my continued companionship that steals your joy’, Sherlock suggested, attempting to dispel the pall of despair that had settled between them.

‘That must be it’, John agreed ruefully.

‘I do apologise, John, but you must endure me until we reach Acre.’

_Until we reach Acre._

John’s hand on Sherlock’s cheek rose to caress his hair and curve around the nape of his neck and felt the small movement of Sherlock’s head leaning into his caress.

Neither Sherlock nor John showed any inclination to separate until they heard someone at the door. John flinched and dropped his hand to the bed as Sherlock simultaneously pulled his hands back into his lap and both their heads jerked around to see a young man, about the same age as Sherlock, standing by the door. It was Haidar. And he was aghast at what he had just witnessed. They waited for Haidar to broach or avoid the subject. He apparently chose the latter option.

‘Pardon me, my lords. I have brought your meals as you had instructed.’ He held out a large tray on which were placed two plates with vegetables, cubes of deeply spiced lamb, pieces of pita bread and two tall tumblers of buttermilk. His wide brown eyes flitted back and forth between Sherlock and John.

‘Thank you, Haidar’, said Sherlock. ‘Please leave the plates on the corner table. I will summon you when we have had our dinner.’

‘Very well, my lord.’ He lingered.

‘Was there something else?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Yes, my lord. The second bed should arrive shortly’, he said and paused awkwardly, then added, ‘if you will need two beds.’ Evidently, he had changed his mind and was now quite blatantly broaching the subject.

On the bed, Sherlock and John stiffened and Haidar cowered under the icy sweep of Sherlock’s pellucid green gaze. ‘For- forgive me, my lord. I only thought that a single broader and lower bed might be more convenient, should Sir Knight require assistance through the night.’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinised Haidar for insinuations of impropriety but the young man’s expression was innocent. Haidar was genuinely in awe of him and there was not the slightest trace of aversion to the intimate interchange on which he had intruded. In fact, he appeared rather contrite to have thoroughly ruined the moment.

Sherlock’s forbidding expression eased. ‘Do you think that will help, Haidar?’

A broad smile spread on Haidar’s happy face. He had never been asked for his opinion before and his confidence swelled. ‘Yes, my lord. It will also give Sir Knight more room for movement. This bed is quite narrow.’

‘In that case, I defer to your judgment.’

‘Very well, my lord. Please ring for me when you wish me to return. I will arrange for a larger bed to be brought in at that time.’

‘Shukhran, Haidar.’

‘I am at your service, my lord- lords’, he amended. He bowed low and long and then retreated from the chamber.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John was grateful for Haidar’s interruption for it had proved distracting enough to take Sherlock’s mind off his late mother. His eyes glimmered with amusement and he flashed Sherlock a loaded smirk, raising an eyebrow.

‘What is it?’

John was nonchalant. ‘Nothing.’

‘It is _something_. You can barely suppress your rather wicked grin, John.’

‘He reminds me of another smitten Saracen’, John simpered. ‘Someone much younger, but just as much in awe of a Briton.’

‘Imran was a foolish boy’, Sherlock retorted, with more force than John expected.

‘I was right’, said John smugly, not elaborating about what exactly he was right.

Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘You seldom are, so impress me.’

John laughed. ‘You _do_ remember his name’, he teased.

Sherlock’s scowl intensified. ‘And you _should_ remember that you almost died’, he snapped. John had outdone him this time and he was annoyed. ‘Eat. I do not wish to tarry here longer than we need to.’

They ate in silence and then drank the buttermilk. John savoured the cool feeling inside him as the chilled buttermilk descended from his throat to his stomach, washing down the spicy meal.

Sherlock took the plates and tumblers and placed them on the tray. He then helped John rise from the bed and led him to the bath chamber to complete his ablutions. While John made use of the garderobe, Sherlock rang for Haidar. John emerged from the bath to see that his old bed had been replaced a low, broader bed on which were placed two fluffy pillows and a thick coverlet over which was spread a sheet of red velvet. Haidar had departed, the door was shut and bolted and they were alone in the chamber. Sherlock sat on one side of the bed, his legs folded under him, like a Saracen in prayer. He rose to his knees, ready to help John who held up a hand.

‘I can walk’, John grimaced. Each struggling step towards the bed felt like it would be his last but he finally reached it and lowered himself onto the bed, a loud groan of pleasure rumbling in his chest as he sank into the soft mattress. He closed his eyes in bliss. ‘This is nice, very nice indeed.’

‘Haidar has been most attentive.’

‘He likes you.’

‘I am glad that at least one person finds me likeable.’

‘More than just one.’

Sherlock flashed John a sidelong glance but read nothing in his inscrutable smile. Disappointed, he huffed, ‘You must rest now.’

‘I shall, but not before you finish your story.’

‘What do you wish to know?’

Sherlock was seated on his uninjured side, so John gingerly turned on that side to face Sherlock, sighing when the pressure eased from his wound.

‘Tell me – how does a Crusader meet a Saracen girl and beget upon her an incomparable boy who seems to derive great pleasure from torturing Crusaders?’

‘Not _all_ Crusaders. I am quite particular.’

John felt weak with happiness. The tacit approbation in Sherlock’s words and his glimmering green eyes felt as if he had touched John’s heart.

‘My parents met under the most remarkable circumstances. Do you remember the attack on Damascus by Louis the Seventh of France and Conrad the Third of Germany?’

‘I do. It was a most ill-considered assault. The European army was no match for the Saracens led by Najm ad-Din Ayyub, governor of Damascus under Nur ad-Din Zengi. The British were wise not to participate for the French and German armies were routed. They withdrew, defeated and demoralised.’

‘Indeed, but among Louis’ spoils of war was a young Saracen girl.’

‘Your mother?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘She was only ten when she was taken from her family and smuggled back to France. Her life in Louis’ palace began as a scullery maid but because of her great beauty and refined comportment, she was later groomed to be a lady-in-waiting to his wives and daughters. She said I have her hair, nose and lips, and my father’s eyes, skin and physique.’

John’s appreciative gaze swept over Sherlock’s body. ‘The perfect paragon of Saracen and British intellect and beauty combined sits on my bed and permits me to look upon him. I must be in paradise’, he said, watching Sherlock with a lopsided, impish grin.

John’s praise sent a rush of pink to Sherlock’s cheeks. His lips trembled and he cast a sweet, shy glance at John that sent a shiver down the knight’s spine. ‘Sufyan’s medicine is bringing out the poet in you, John’, he laughed and crinkled his nose, adding, ‘but your poetry is not very good. I daresay you should focus on your talents for fighting and healing.’

John tried, in vain, to ignore the odd pang in his chest and frowned, assuming an expression of hurt. Sherlock only laughed some more. John laughed with him. ‘Go on, then, tell me about your mother.’

‘A few years later, France and England had made their peace. Louis had been succeeded by his son, Phillip Augustus and England was ruled by Henry the Second. The Europeans decided Saladin’s army had grown too powerful and planned a Third Crusade. It was a summer evening when Phillip was entertaining Henry and his coterie with a view to getting them to lead their armies into the Holy Land beside the French. The palace grounds were decorated with flowers and ornate torches. Wine flowed freely. Tender meats were served. My mother was seventeen at the time. She caught the attention of a young Briton in Henry’s coterie.’

‘Young love’, John mused.

‘Yes, he was twenty. He must have had the ear of the King because, at his behest, Henry insisted that she be given to the British to secure their support in the next Crusade. They fell deeply in love but knew that their union would never be sanctioned by the Church…’, his voice trailed off.

John shook his head grimly. ‘Briton and Saracen; I can imagine the tumult it would have caused in the Church of England.’

‘Indeed’, said Sherlock with a tight nod. ‘I was born in Britain and soon after my birth, was left in the care of my adoptive parents, the Earl of Huntingdon and his wife, Lady Rowena, who were unable to have children of their own. Not wanting to separate my mother from her infant, they granted her employment as a lady-in-waiting to Lady Rowena and a wet nurse to me, and later my governess. It is possible that my father visited her, and me, during her time there, unbeknownst to anyone other than the Earl and his wife.’

‘When did you learn that she was your birth mother?’

‘I did not know her true identity for a long time, although many courtiers commented on the striking similarity I bore to her. Rumours were fanned about the Earl’s infidelity and the rumblings grew and grew until one day, my mother was nowhere to be found.’

John gasped. ‘What had they done to her?!’

‘Nothing gruesome’, Sherlock smiled. ‘The Earl and Lady Rowena are among the kindest and most upstanding royals in all of Britain. They arranged for my mother join my father in Cyprus while he fought in the Third Crusade. It was not public knowledge that my father was already married, so he was betrothed to a noblewoman with whose family his father wished to form a political alliance. My mother…she was a proud and strong woman. Upon hearing the news, she chose to return to Damascus, to her brother who loved her dearly and gladly took her back. She told me that her brother and my father held each other in great regard although, on the battlefield, they would be enemies. It broke my father to lose her but it was the only way they could continue to live, for the Church would surely have them put to the sword if their sacrilegious marriage were revealed.’

Sherlock paused, as if feeling his parents’ pain.

John grew concerned. ‘Sherlock…’, he whispered but Sherlock shook his head and blinked hard, quelling whatever emotion had risen in him.

‘It was then that my adoptive parents revealed my mother’s identity to me. They even sent me to Damascus to live with her for two years when I was younger. I have visited her twice more before now. She was a healer who honed her skills under Sufyan’s tutelage. She taught me everything I know of that subject.’

‘Ah, that is how you know this land and its ways so well’, John smiled. ‘And that is why you are also very, very British. A child of two worlds’, he marvelled, regarding Sherlock as if he were a miracle in the flesh.

Sherlock saw the amazement bloom on John’s face. ‘I _am_ real, John’, he said dryly but his own cheeks coloured under John’s enthralled incredulity.

‘Sometimes I wonder about that’, John said softly. ‘You are unlike anyone I have ever met. Or imagined.’

Sherlock glared at John. ‘Do you always speak your mind with no regard for the consequences?’

‘What consequences do my words have now?’ John parried.

A moment passed. Then another. And another.

‘None.’

‘None?’

The sweet, flushed lips pushed out in an endearing pout. ‘None with which you need concern yourself at this time’, Sherlock mumbled irately.

John’s grin was triumphant but inside, the knot in his stomach slackened. He had unwittingly revealed too much and determined to be more circumspect. ‘How did you, a Briton, pass safely through Saracen territory? You said the men you met on your journeys did not have the most honourable intentions.’

‘The Earl attempted to ensure my safety during my transit from Britain to the Holy Land. That did not always go as well as he would have hoped. Suspicions about my parentage and’, he shrugged, ‘interest in my… appearance… have proved problematic. My uncle, however, made certain I would be safe once I landed on Saracen shores. Until a few days ago, I had never encountered any adversities on Saracen territory.’

‘Your uncle must wield considerable power if he is able to move a Briton through Saracen lands. But men in power also have enemies.’

‘He does’, Sherlock responded to both statements.

John waited. Sherlock would decide if he would take the final step in trusting John.

Sherlock stared at the carpet at his feet. ‘My mother’s father was Najm ad-Din Ayyūb. Her brother, my uncle, is Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb. ’

His gaze lifted to meet John’s.

‘The world knows him as Saladin.’

 


	10. Chapter 10

_Sherlock stared at the carpet at his feet. ‘My mother’s father was Najm ad-Din Ayyūb. Her brother, my uncle, is Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb.’_

_His gaze lifted to meet John’s._

_‘The world knows him as Saladin.’_

* * *

All the air in John’s lungs left him and with it, his words. He stared at Sherlock, reeling from the revelation that Saladin’s nephew sat on his bed. Sherlock held his gaze, reading all the unspoken demands for answers that John was flinging at him.

‘You have questions.’

‘Of course I have questions!’

‘Well?’

‘Who were they, Sherlock, those Saracens who ambushed you?’

‘Mercenaries, I told you.’

‘There is more. There must be! Why would they come back for you if the man who sold you to the Emir received a handsome amount? Would his transaction not have ended with that?’

Sherlock exhaled hard through his nose. He rose from the bed and began to pace the floor.

‘Sherlock…’

‘His orders, the second time, were to kill me.’ He pulled out a small piece of parchment from the pocket of his tunic and paused by the bed to hand it to John. ‘I took this from his corpse. When his fellow assassin failed to kill me the first time, after murdering my bodyguard, he must have been commissioned to complete the job.’

The note was written in Arabic. _“The boy lives. A Crusader helped him escape from Tiberias and they are now on their way to Acre. The Crusader is irrelevant but the boy must be killed. Upon delivery, at the Inn of the Black Swans in Acre, of proof of his death, the bearer of this note will receive one thousand dinars of pure gold.”_

‘One thousand dinars! Someone is very eager to see you dead.’

‘You can see why this man returned to finish the job.’

John read the rest of the note. _“The boy must not survive.”_ It was signed _“Ta’lab.”_

‘Ta’lab. Ta’lab’, John pondered. ‘Who could that be?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Your uncle’s enemies must know you are Saladin’s nephew.’

‘They must’, Sherlock agreed, still walking back and forth across the room, his gait nimble with the quivering agitation of a mind aggressively seeking connections between random pieces of information to unravel the machinations at play and formulate a scheme that would save his life.

‘Sufyan will send word to my uncle to beware of conspirators in his ranks. My uncle will discover the masterminds behind this and see that they are dealt with, but Sufyan thinks we should leave the Holy Land as soon as we can. He suggests I travel in disguise to Acre.’

‘Sufyan is right – you must reach British shores as soon as you can. And I know the perfect disguise.’

Sherlock had been walking away from John but he stopped and looked over his shoulder, studying John’s expression. ‘The glint in your eye gives me pause, John.’

John grinned. ‘You must wear a burqa.’

‘What? No! I will not be dressed as a woman!’

John’s smile faded. ‘Please, Sherlock. Your appearance is… to put it very mildly, remarkable.’

It would take more than that to convince Sherlock. ‘I suspect the poet in you making an unscheduled appearance again’, he snapped, a derisive smirk curling his lips.

‘No! Listen to me, please. Even if the rest of your face were covered, your eyes would give away your foreign origins.’ He hated reminding Sherlock of what had happened, but he had no choice. ‘It took me one look at your eyes in the Emir’s tent to know you were different… and I could not look away.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John pressed on. ‘There is something remote and unattainable about you that people find intriguing – they will want to know more about you and that puts you in danger. If you are completely veiled, you can stay with me as my female companion.’

Sherlock smirked. ‘A female companion who towers over you?’

‘Perhaps I like my women tall’, was John’s wry retort. Then he turned serious again. ‘Please, Sherlock, we will not raise suspicion this way and you will safely get on your ship to Britain.’

Sherlock went quiet again and resumed his pacing. Then he stopped and turned to face John. His mind was made up.

‘Very well, I will disguise myself under a burqa and you will go to the Inn of the Black Swans.’

John’s eyebrows lifted as high as the skin on his face would permit. Aghast at the preposterous suggestion, he demurred. ‘Our objective is to escape your killers, not meet them for drinks and pleasant conversation at the tavern.’

Sherlock blew out an impatient sigh. ‘The note from Ta’lab mentions you, John. They are looking for you because you will lead them to me. If you arrive in Acre accompanied by someone in a burqa, they will naturally, and quite correctly, assume it is I behind the veil. If, however, you deliver unequivocal proof of my death, they will assume, quite _in_ correctly, that you were tempted by the promise of gold and killed me for the money. After all, Crusaders are not remunerated very well for what, I am certain, is a thankless occupation. You and your female acquaintance will, consequently, be of no interest to them and they will stop looking for me. I do not see another way to put us both out of harm’s way.’

‘There must be. Saladin will find out who they are.’

‘My uncle is fighting a war with three nations on multiple fronts. Either I go back to Damascus and live under his protection until he has uncovered this conspiracy or we leave this place as soon as we possibly can, with our lives and bodies intact, and return to Britain.’

John considered Sherlock’s strategy, struggling to offer more persuasive arguments against it. When none presented themselves, he capitulated.

‘Very well. I shall do as you propose. What kind of proof do you think will convince your killers that you are, indeed, dead?’

‘I have a notion and need to speak with Sufyan about that. Tomorrow. Now, you must rest.’

John rolled onto his back and Sherlock stretched himself out on the bed beside him. They both stared at the ceiling, apprehension about the coming days thickening the air between them.

It was a long while later that John’s quiet words broke the hush. ‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered.

‘No.’

‘There is something you should know. Something I should have said before.’

Sherlock turned on his side to look at John. He said nothing.

‘I am changeable’, said John, his voice strangled with the raw sincerity of his words. After a moment, he dropped his head to the side on his pillow, looking at Sherlock watching him, waiting until Sherlock’s eyes widened with recognition of his true meaning. Then he spoke again. ‘Very, very changeable’, he said.

Sherlock’s lashes swept down and when they lifted, they glimmered; his lips tightened, but his gaze stayed locked on John’s. His next words were borne on a sigh so low that it could have been mistaken for the susurration of the breeze. But John heard him.

‘I am not unattainable to some people.’

John straightened his head so that he was looking at the ceiling once more.

Sometime during the night, Sherlock shifted closer to John and draped his forearm over his chest. Sometime later that night, John turned towards Sherlock, easing the pressure on his wound, and dropped his arm across the space between their bodies, his hand gently sliding down Sherlock’s side and settling comfortably, perfectly, in the dip in his waist. Sherlock’s arm slipped down to the bed, his fingers curling in the folds of John’s tunic. Less than a foot of space separated their bodies which were connected by their hands. They stayed like that until the rooster’s clarion call announced the arrival of morning.

\--------------

Three days later, as Sufyan had estimated, John’s wound was almost completely healed and he was able to walk without pain. Apart from a slight twinge that troubled him when he twisted his torso, his strength coursed through his limbs. To put his renewed vigour to the test, he rode Starlight for an hour. Her joy was unbounded at being able to carry her master again, and man and beast returned after an energising gallop in the blistering sun, perspiring and gasping but elated.

Sherlock watched their return, an unfathomable look in his green eyes. Starlight pulled to a stop and John slipped off her bare back, wincing softly when the scar over his wound stretched with the movement.

Sherlock’s hand curled into a fist when he saw John grimace. ‘Will you survive until we reach Acre?’ he asked; his tone was rude but his eyes were soft.

John laughed fondly at Sherlock’s stern way of showing concern. ‘You will not let me renege on my promise, so I must.’

Sherlock smirked. ‘When you are bathed, our meals will be served.’ He turned on his heel and disappeared into the mansion, not waiting for John to follow.

\---------------

Later that day, after they had eaten their midday meals, John sat at the window, looking out at the city of Sha’ab. Sherlock was seated on the bed, still as a statue, as a sculptor sat on the floor facing him, his legs folded before him, creating a life-sized clay model of Sherlock’s face on a potter’s wheel. His skilled fingers fashioned an exact likeness of Sherlock’s head out of the sticky, damp material, smoothing it out to replicate the sweep of his cheekbones, sticking a small gob in the middle to mould his perfect nose, pressing in his index finger down over the middle of the upper lip to create the bow-shape of Sherlock’s own mouth. He patted additional lumps of the material onto the head and teased them into curls just like Sherlock’s, a few long tendrils falling over the broad forehead and smaller wisps curling above the nape of his neck.

When the sculptor had finished, Sufyan summoned an artist whose job it was to paint the still-damp model with lifelike colours. A broad brush was used to apply the almost-white paint over the model’s skin. Charcoal mixed with wood bark created the bistre shade of Sherlock’s curls. Green marbles with large black centres were pushed into the soft clay to represent his irises and minute rivulets of red were painted over the whites of the eyes to simulate a bloodshot look. Thick crimson paint was generously dabbed to the edge of the neck, where the head had purportedly been separated from the body, and then smeared over the dark curls, to suggest a violent clubbing.

Sculptor and artist stood back and turned the potter’s wheel around, proudly presenting their work.

John’s dismayed gasp rent the room. The model of Sherlock’s face was so convincing in this gruesome recreation that his head jerked away in revulsion. Sufyan and Sherlock, however, stared at the lurid replica in fascination. Sherlock expressed his heartfelt admiration to the sculptor and artist and they immediately knelt in gratitude when Sufyan handed them each a small pouch containing seventy-five dinars of gold.

‘You will not speak of this to anyone’, Sufyan ordered.

‘If we do, may our tongues be cut from our mouths and our hands shrivel from leprosy, mudarris’, said the sculptor.

The artist added, ‘Our allegiance is to the Sultan and anyone who wishes the Sultan or his family harm is our enemy.’

Sufyan nodded. He knew these men could be trusted. He turned to Sherlock who was still gaping at the disturbing facsimile of his own head, blatantly appreciating the tremendous skill and detail with which it had been created.

A few moments passed before Sherlock realised that John was not saying anything. ‘John’, he called out.

John would still not look. He could not. He faced the window and was wiping his palms on his tunic, down his sides, clenching and releasing his fists.

‘John, it is just a model. If you find yourself unable to look upon it, I fear you will not be able to convincingly present this to my killers as indisputable proof that I am dead. I might as well offer my neck on an executioner’s block for them to reproduce this sculpture. Turn around and look at it.’

‘I cannot, Sherlock!’ John shouted over his shoulder as he strode out of the chamber.

He leaned against the wall outside. The horrifying image of the uncannily realistic sculpture – head beaten and bloodied, skin pallid from the loss of blood, lifeless eyes staring at the onlooker – sent a shiver down his spine. Death was the only constant in the life of a soldier. Yet thoughts of Sherlock dead, _murdered_ , coalesced into a hard lump of crippling fear inside him that rose up to his throat. He cared naught for his own life; if it ended on the battlefield, it would bring long-awaited liberation from the sense of loss that saturated his very soul, but the prospect of Sherlock’s young life being extinguished prematurely, while he watched helplessly, filled him with a fear unlike any he had ever known.

Deciding that it was time for him to intercede, Sufyan hobbled out to John. He found the knight standing with his back pressed to the wall, his eyes closed and his forehead creased with anguish.

Sufyan understood. ‘Sir Knight’, he whispered, ‘you see yourself in this moment as weak, unable to consider what might have been or still might come to pass, but your fears did not become reality, and the future is always uncertain, John.’

The use of his first name made John open his eyes and he found himself looking at Sufyan’s kind face, his perceptive eye peering right into the innermost recesses of John’s mind.

‘Know that your dread arises not from weakness but from strength, from your power to feel so intensely, to care so deeply’, he whispered. ‘That is your gift, Sir Knight, to give to someone worthy, and you have chosen to offer it to Sherlock. That boy is exceptional, but you are, too.’

Sufyan’s plaudits did not touch John. ‘You ascribe to me qualities that I do not possess.’

Sufyan shook his head indulgently. ‘Just as the eye cannot see itself and the tongue cannot taste itself, you do not see your own shining soul. Heed the words of an old man who has seen generations come and go. In the heart’, he said, placing a knobby hand over John’s chest, ‘is a fount from which rise all the merits and faults that may be found in a person. Yours _overflows_ with valour and nobility, with kindness and integrity. Sherlock could not have found a more trustworthy companion if he had scoured the world. Life has a sister in Fate and together they move in mysterious ways – they know what they are doing. Trust them.’

‘What good are your words if I am still afraid?’ John asked, painful helplessness making his voice a shallow rasp. ‘He could have died! I lay on the ground, wounded and helpless to stop his assailants. He could have been-’, John stopped, waving a distressed hand backwards, in the direction of the chamber where the shocking clay model sat on the floor. ‘I am afraid for him!’

‘Hush’, Sufyan calmed him. ‘Fear is wisdom in the face of danger.’

‘Platitudes mean nothing to me, Sufyan.’

‘Do not make the mistake of underestimating Sherlock because he is young. Behind that angelic face is one of the sharpest minds I have encountered; those willowy limbs are capable of the most skillful sword-fighting and archery I have witnessed. You will keep _him_ safe, John. And he will keep _you_ safe.’

John held Sufyan’s gaze, a hundred questions swimming in his undecided, unbelieving blue eyes.

A cryptic smile stretched those old loose lips and John was again given a view of toothless gums. ‘I have seen it’, Sufyan grinned, a gleam in his good eye. He lifted his hand to John’s shoulder and lightly squeezed the muscle. ‘Come back inside, now. The boy worries for you.’

Swallowing his fears, John followed Sufyan into the room. Sherlock and the two artisans watched him with concern writ large on their faces.

‘Pardon us, Sir Knight’, the sculptor apologised. ‘We did not intend to upset you.’

‘No’, John said, ‘no, it is your skills that are going to save Sherlock’s life. For that I am grateful.’

Sherlock shuffled up to him. ‘John’, he said, ‘I truly believe this is our best option. Will you help me?’

John nodded. ‘Do I have a choice?’ he smiled.

‘None at all’, Sherlock smiled back, his relief evident in the light tone of his voice.

‘I have one more request’, Sufyan cut in, ‘if you will indulge me.’

‘Anything you wish, mudarris!’ the sculptor responded humbly.

‘My request is for you, actually’, Sufyan said to the artist, 'and for Sherlock.’ He looked at the sculptor. 'You may leave.'

The sculptor bowed and left the chamber and the three men waited for Sufyan to reveal his wish.

‘If Sherlock is agreeable’, he said, looking at him before addressing the artist, ‘I would be grateful if you could paint a portrait of him. Nothing too big. I wish to have something by which to remember him for I suspect I will be gone by the time he returns.’

The prospect of losing Sufyan disturbed Sherlock to the core. ‘What happened to twenty more summers, Sufyan?’ he provoked the old man, couching his fear in sarcasm. ‘You said you are still young. I did not know you were given to displays of melodrama.’

Sufyan did not elaborate beyond adding, ‘Grant an old man his wish, Sherlock.’

‘Very well, only because you are an old man.’

\---------------

Sherlock posed while the artist sat at an easel and created a small portrait, no more than one square foot in size but exquisitely detailed, a loving reproduction of its subject. When he had finished, Sherlock thanked him and left the room to start making preparations to leave the following morning. He had not cast a glance his own painting.

‘It should be dry within a few hours, mudarris’, said the artist, visibly wounded that Sherlock had not looked at his work. ‘I hope you are satisfied with it’, he said to Sufyan but John responded.

‘It is- it is outstanding!’ John exclaimed.

Sufyan nodded to the artist, dismissing him. When he was alone with John, he smiled.

‘I am glad you think that’, said Sufyan, ‘for I wish you to have this. Your most vivid memory of this Crusade should not be this image’, he waved towards the model, ‘of Sherlock. You should remember him as he actually is, like this’, he said, pointing at the painting.

‘Shukhran, Sufyan’, John murmured. ‘Shukhran.’

‘Keep my boy safe, habibi, and be happy, always. That is thanks enough for this old man’, he grinned. ‘Go on now. You must prepare to leave tomorrow morning.’

* * *

**A/N**

The inspiration for the clay model ruse is the South Korean artist [Choi Xooang](https://www.yatzer.com/choi-xooang-yatzerized/slideshow/1).

Google translation:

Ta'lab - Fox


	11. Chapter 11

The sun was approaching the end of its slow sweep towards the west. Three hours earlier, John and Sherlock had left Sha’ab with warm wishes from Sufyan and food and water to sustain them until they arrived at Acre. They rode saddle-less again, Starlight maintaining a slower but steady pace as she once more laboured under the weight of two grown men. Sherlock sat in front of John, the clay replica of his severed head placed in a burlap sack held tight between his thighs. A long sash fastened the sack to his waist to ensure its safety in transit. John, however, must have thought that it was not secured well enough because he leaned forward, pressed into Sherlock’s back so that his arms snugly fitted against Sherlock’s sides and held the sack in place. Sherlock also seemed to think it was a well-warranted precaution because he pushed back into John’s chest as if to give him more reach.

The loose fabric of a black abayah fell in soft folds around Sherlock’s slender frame and his head and face were covered by a black burqa, with only a small netted window over his eyes to allow him to see. 

Since their departure from Sha’ab, John had said little about their mad plan, _Sherlock’s_ mad plan, to dupe his enemies. Sherlock had spent the past hour rationally and patiently tabulating, for the fourth time, the merits of his plan in a failing attempt to convince John. His words grew softer, more resigned as they floated over the wind before him. But John’s forehead came to rest on his shoulder and he murmured, ‘Your way, we will do it your way’, against Sherlock’s back. The tense shoulder-blade under his cheek relaxed almost immediately and large hands covered his own hands over the sack. 

To the unsuspecting onlooker, they appeared as Crusader and female lover seated affectionately close on a beautiful beast that sprinted across the orange sands like an arrow of black.

Night had fallen by the time they trotted through the gates of the city of Acre where Sherlock’s enemies awaited proof of his death.

John evaluated lodging options at inns that were close to the port and decided on the Inn of the Faithful, run by Christians who had settled in the city.  Their room was sparsely appointed. A broad bed was placed against the wall. Two torches provided the only illumination in the room apart from the moon that peeked out from behind heavy clouds and streamed in through the single window in sheets of silver white.

‘Stay here’, John said to Sherlock.

His fingernails lightly scratched at the facial hair that had grown in the time they had spent at Sha’ab. Sherlock had not permitted him to shave it so now it was too long to call a stubble, and John was annoyed. Because it itched. He loathed being unkempt but recalled Sherlock’s words. _Stop complaining, John! My enemies are unlikely to believe that a Crusader of handsome and upstanding countenance is capable of killing a fellow Briton in cold blood._ Those harshly uttered words sent delight surging through him. But then Sherlock had added, _the beard makes you look like a man with dubious morals,_ and John had to agree. In his view, the beard made him look unsavoury but Sherlock’s furtive, and appreciative, oblique glances at John’s face told him that Sherlock had not been entirely honest about his reasons for making John keep it.

Sherlock had flipped back his burqa, looking ridiculously lovely in the female garment as he stood cloaked in the abayah, radiating all the regality of a decadent Arab Sheikh.

‘Stay here, Sherlock’, John repeated, an edge to his tone. ‘Lock the door from the inside. I do _not_ want you roaming the streets of the city without me.’

Sherlock shrugged and studied the room. Lazy. Bored.

‘Sherlock! Are you listening to me?’

Sherlock walked to the window to take in their surroundings but John shouted before he could reach his destination. ‘Not without your veil!’

A bad tempered scowl darkened Sherlock’s brow but he pulled down his burqa before standing by the window.

‘Good’, said John, asserting what little authority he could with this disobedient young man. ‘Stay inside, Sherlock’, he cautioned him. Again. ‘Do not do anything foolhardy.’

Sherlock turned around and threw back his veil. An arch of a thick, dark eyebrow preceded a lazy upward curl of the full lips. ‘You have no faith in me.’

‘Indeed, I do not. I must leave now. Lock the door.’

He shut the door behind him but waited to hear the bolt slide into place before leaving the Inn of the Faithful to make his way to the Inn of the Black Swans. The burlap sack with the clay head dangled heavily from his shoulder, swinging as he walked. He curled an arm around it to hold it close to his body. A short walk later he stood before the Inn of the Black Swans.

Pushing open the door, he stepped into a tavern filled with bawdy and raucous lovers of wine and women. He threaded his way through the jostling bodies, picking up snatches of vulgar conversation before he was facing the barkeep.

‘What will you have today, brother?’ the barkeep shouted over the deafening laughter of his other patrons.

‘Nothing. I seek Ta’lab.’

A subtle straightening of the barkeep’s back and a quick flick of his eyes to John’s left told him that Ta’lab was already in the tavern.

The barkeep was suddenly unwilling to speak to John any longer. ‘Up the stairs, top floor, last door down the corridor. Wait there.’ He turned to serve his next customer.

The first step groaned when John stepped on it. It became quieter as he climbed to the top. He walked down the deserted corridor and guardedly pushed open the door to the room at the end. Stepping in, he shut and locked the door behind him. It was dark. Good. Darkness was an ally. As realistic as the replica was, John worried that it would not bear close scrutiny. The single window was open and he squinted in the faint moonlight to make out his surroundings. A round wooden table stood in the middle of the room with a slim chair beside it.

Placing the sack on top, he carefully, noiselessly pulled the table to the window and then moved the chair next to it. Then he unlocked the door and arranged himself in the chair, sprawling with his legs stretched out before him in what he believed was an effective impression of a hardened mercenary completely unaffected by the ghoulish contents of his sack or the purported act of which it was the bloody result. Now he waited, his back to the wall, his eyes trained on the thin sliver of light under the door.

Cautious footsteps grew louder as they approached the door and a shadow paused before it. A creak disturbed the dead quiet as the door was pushed open. Slowly. Very slowly. Then it stopped moving. A dark figure stood silhouetted against the backdrop of dim torchlight flickering over the corridor. Indistinct curses and shouts reached the room from the tavern below.

‘Show me’, said a deep voice in Arabic.

‘Are you Ta’lab?’ asked John.

‘Show me’, repeated the voice, gruff this time. Impatient.

John sank deeper in his chair and casually reached out a hand to undo the knot at the top of the sack. The thick fabric slipped down in heavy folds, revealing the grotesque replica of Sherlock’s head, shadowed in the low light in the room. The marble irises gleamed eerily under the silver moonbeams. John’s hand curved, in ostensible pride, behind the neck of the bodiless head, presenting it for viewing.

The man peered through the darkness, his eyes gradually adjusting to the murkiness, and studied the head. The ghastly model gaped at him and he took a step back, revolted by the gruesome but, from a distance, utterly believable image.

Sherlock’s ploy, outrageous though it was, appeared to be working. Excitement like John had not known since his youth coursed through his veins. Emboldened, he recklessly infused a further dose of theatrics into the already precarious situation. ‘Convinced?’ he drawled. ‘Or would you like to touch?’, he invited with a silken laugh that was calculated to make him appear cruel, an impression he deliberately reinforced with the light stroke of a finger down the pallid cheekbone of the head, as if in admiration of his own handiwork. ‘Pretty, is he not? He was so much more beautiful in life.’

The Saracen’s disgust rang out in his strident words. ‘You kill for sport!’

‘No, for gold, much like your masters, I would imagine’, John sneered, seemingly unaffected by the Saracen’s repugnance. ‘I do not have all night. Where is the gold?’

‘I do not have it.’

‘That is… quite unacceptable’, John growled, clasping the grip of his poniard. ‘I have brought proof of the boy’s death, like the note said.’ His eyes flashed with a dangerous blue fire. ‘Unless you want to end up like him, you will give me my gold.’

‘I do not have the gold. And if you kill me, you never will.’

John waited.

‘Go to Nahariyya Hammam. Ask for Ta’lab at the front and say this phrase exactly: “ _fi hadhih alghabat, walththaelub hu almalik”. _ You will receive your gold.’

John frowned. He had hoped to conclude this nasty business at the earliest. This unexpected protraction was most inconvenient. ‘I have no time for your dramatics.’

‘If you want your gold, you will make the time.’

‘Get out’, John said, his voice hard like cold steel.

The man sniggered and turned around to leave. John’s hand still rested behind the model of Sherlock’s head which dolefully sat on the table, surrounded by the sack. He swept his arm down to his side but then froze. Time slowed when the curl of an errant finger was caught in the string at the mouth of the sack; the fabric dragged over the table top, taking with it the frangible earthen figure that plunged face down towards the stone floor. Its arc terminated in a loud crash as shards of shattered clay exploded outwards across the floor in a bloodless starburst of brown. The green marbles fell out of their now-cracked recesses in the eyes and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop only when they met the wall.

The door was flung open. The Saracen had returned and stood there, sword drawn, breathing hard and staring in stunned silence at the powdery floor. The deception could not have been clearer. He bellowed a war cry and charged towards John, sword lifted over his head ready to strike a death blow to John’s head. The steel rang, cleaving the air by John’s ear as he slipped off the chair; the blade came down hard and lodged itself deep in the backrest.

The Saracen struggled for a moment to dislodge his sword from the wood. One moment too many, it turned out, because the sword was not yet free of its wooden vice when agony arrowed out from the point in the Saracen’s back where John’s poniard had pierced his side. The slender blade gracefully slid under his ribs and punctured a lung. Screaming in pain, the Saracen crashed to the ground, waving his sword around feebly, his strength draining with every pulse of blood that bubbled from the deep wound in his back.

Knowing that he had dealt a fatal wound, John grabbed the man’s hair and held up his head to draw his blade clean across the peristaltic throat, ending his life as humanely as he could under the circumstances. A macabre gurgle accompanied a weak fountain of blood and the Saracen’s head lolled to the side. Dead.

Cursing his clumsy hand, John peered out at the corridor. It was empty. The merrymaking in the tavern two floors below continued uninterrupted. He locked the door from the inside and clutched his hair with both hands, wondering how exactly he would get out of this place. Still berating himself, he uncoiled the Saracen’s turban and used it to sweep the powdered remains back into the sack. The fine residue he brushed towards the wall. Lifting the Saracen’s lifeless body with groaning effort, he placed it in the chair, resting the slumping head against the wall, as if the man was asleep.

As an afterthought, he covered the man’s face with his black turban. Respect for the dead or a precaution to delay discovery? He did not know. The turban was quickly growing wet with the man’s weakly pulsing blood. He had to get out.

John leaned out of the window, looking for anything he could use to climb down. About two feet from the window, a pipe ran along the wall right down to the street. Perfect! One leg warily swung over the sill and then the other. He sat on the frame and leaned out to grab the pipe. When he felt ready, he hoisted himself off the sill to hug the pipe and swung his legs around and up to grip the pipe with the soles of his boots. Sliding his feet down and then his hands, he alternated the movements, slithering down the pipe until his feet touched the street.  He found himself in a back alley, dark and derelict.

A quick scan of his surroundings to make sure he had not been spotted, and then he triumphantly sprinted out of the alley but slowed to a walk when he arrived at the main street. Unnoticed, a dark figure moved in the shadows behind him, and set off in quick pursuit.

\------------------

Hot, humid air assaulted John’s face when he entered Naharriya Hammam. Several tall piles of clean white towels sat on a long table. Saracen men in varying degrees of undress walked up to the table and grasped a towel each, making their way to the steaming baths. A sweaty, swarthy Saracen man stood behind a table, apparently in the capacity of greeter. His keen, dark eyes watched John. Waiting. Wondering what a Christian was doing in what was clearly a Saracen establishment.

John walked up to him and cleared his throat. Assuming an expression of disdainful indifference, he said, in perfect Arabic, “ _F_ _i hadhih alghabat, walththaelub hu almalik”._

The greeter straightened, alert now, and nodded to a young boy waiting a few feet away.

‘Please come with me, sir’, said the boy and led John down one of four corridors leading out, like spokes in a wheel, from this entrance. He paused before a closed door. ‘In here, sir’, he said and scurried away.

John slowly pushed open the door. Four dark forms sat on wooden chairs placed snug against the wall. When he entered, they rose to their feet as one. A small torch flickered from its sconce on the wall. The men were dressed from head to toe in black, black scarves wrapped around their heads and covering their faces. Only their eyes were visible in the dim light cast by the fluttering flame. Their hands clutched their scimitars. A large pouch, presumably holding the promised sum, sat heavily on the ground by one man’s feet.

‘You killed the boy.’ It could have been a question or a statement of fact. Or an accusation.

‘Have you met the boy?’ John asked. ‘You would kill him too. I thank our Lord for what little patience I was able to harness and tolerate him for a few days or I would have lost out on this money. Let me have my prize that I may go back to my lovely woman’, he said, deliberately including a reference to the veiled figure who accompanied him as a woman because he knew he would be followed, ‘and take my pleasure. Her favours are not granted for free, you realise’, he added with a lewd grin.

The men laughed with him. ‘Bloodthirsty and concupiscent’, said one Saracen. ‘Quite the uncommon Crusader, are you not?’

‘Not particularly, just one of meagre financial means which curtail my opportunities for gratification’, said John with a casual tilt of his head. ‘Now, give me the thousand dinars that I can be on my way and leave you kind gentlemen to your business.’

‘A _thousand_ dinars?’ laughed another man. ‘You will be fortunate to get out of here alive.’

‘I should warn you I am quite capable of defending myself’, said John, his hand closing around Invaincu’s hilt. ‘I have consigned many of your brothers to the afterlife.’

‘We are four of us against one of you, and your stature leaves me underwhelmed, you foreign dog, for our friend here’, said one masked man, gesturing to his gigantic companion, ‘is twice your size. He will hold you down while we kill you.’

The four men advanced upon John from all sides, the giant lumbering towards his left while the other three drew their scimitars and held them out, ready to slice whatever part of John the blades touched.

Behind John, the door flew open, slamming the wall behind it. On the heels of that loud crash came the thin, shrill song of steel as a knife spun through the still air in the room and lodged itself, with none of the ceremony that announced its arrival, in the neck of the giant. The hulk clutched at his throat and crashed to the ground in an ungainly lump of heavy flesh.

‘Three against two’, observed a figure at the door, dressed from head to toe in black. Flashing green eyes darted over the remaining Saracens, calculating advantages and contingencies. The impetuous eyes beamed at John. John glowered back.

'Two?' sputtered one bewildered Saracen.

‘Do you think him a fool to venture into your lair alone?’ John’s unanticipated ally laughed. ‘He is brave but not foolish. He has brought with him a friend’, declared the masked man.

‘A _friend_?’ asked one flummoxed Saracen.

‘So it would seem’, John snapped, sounding exasperated. ‘I have a _fool_ for a friend’, he added, drawing from an inexhaustible phantom quiver to shoot at his shrouded associate with a succession of very incensed glares. Through clenched teeth he ground out, ‘He has trouble hearing or knowing what is best for him. The coins, please. I tire of this exchange.’

‘You must be mad to think we will let you, or your _friend_ , walk out of here alive.’

John was, in truth, tired of this game. He exchanged a look with his associate and, as soon as he saw comprehension, he drew Invaincu in one hand and his poniard in the other to tackle two of the Saracens. His companion seized the advantage offered by the momentary distraction and darted to the fallen giant, scooping up his scimitar and slashing it across the back of the third Saracen. Withdrawing the blade at once, he turned to engage John’s two attackers but there was no need. Both Saracens lay on the floor, dead, their throats slit with clinical efficiency.

‘A healer who kills’, laughed the masked man.

‘A healer who is about to knock his _friend_ on his head!’ shouted John. ‘We need to get out of here, now!’ he called over his shoulder, running down the corridor.

The man in black grabbed the heavy pouch off the floor and sprinted after John.

John had located an exit at the back of the establishment and held the door for his companion. As soon as they were outside the Hammam, they separated and took diverging routes away from the baths.

John walked as quickly as his legs would carry him back to the Inn of the Faithful. Once inside their room, their empty room, he closed the door and leaned against the wall, head pressed back into the plaster, arms hanging limply by his sides. His chest rose and fell with the force of his breaths. He waited. And waited. The seemingly interminable interval ended when the door was opened and the figure in black came through it.

The scarf was pulled off and Sherlock came to stand beside him, leaning against the wall. He turned his head and grinned at John, his face pleasingly flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Hearts pounded. Breaths came in long drags. Exhilaration crackled in the charged air between them.

John closed his eyes, weak with temporary relief. Sherlock was safe. Temporarily. They had killed the men, _some_ of the men who had wanted Sherlock dead. They did not know if Ta’lab was among the dead Saracens. Everything about this companionship was temporary. Their impending separation loomed over John like a spectre, a harbinger of inevitable desolation. He would regress from being _alive_ back to just breathing to exist. Day after day after day, when all he wanted was to hold on to these few, precious moments of living, moments that burned bright as a flame inside him, forever. The memory would have to suffice.

He opened his eyes and turned to look at Sherlock. The steadfast green eyes were still fixed on him but Sherlock’s grin faded when he saw concerns about the future swim in John’s gaze. He pushed himself off the wall and took a step towards John.

His hand came up, slowly, hesitantly, and touched John’s cheek. A touch so light, so soft that John only suspected it was there, so he leaned into it, into the comforting and warm solidity of Sherlock’s palm. His own hand cupped Sherlock’s face but slipped down to curl around his neck, his thumb slowly stroking his sharp jawline.

They remained like that, eyes locked on each other, standing on opposite sides of a tenuous, invisible boundary. Waiting.

* * *

**A/N:**

Google translation:

“fi hadhih alghabat , walththaealib hu almalik .” – In this jungle, the fox is king.


	12. Chapter 12

The palm touching Sherlock’s cheek felt as if it was on fire but he could not pull away, even though the moment was too much to bear. Sherlock looked directly at him, inside him, seeing too much, more than John wanted to reveal. The silence was deafening - too much was being said in the soundless room. In this moment, in that unprotected green gaze, John saw everything he had wanted but had dared not hope he would see.

Still touching, for he could not bear to lose this fragile connection he had with Sherlock, John looked away and with considerable effort, arranged his features into austerity.  His thumb ceased stroking Sherlock’s jaw and rested, instead, on the pulsing vein running down Sherlock’s neck. ‘What were you thinking?’ he demanded. He could not be certain the moment had passed but prayed that it had.

Sherlock dropped his hand to John’s shoulder. ‘I was thinking that you- I could… imagine the kind of men you would encounter. Did you expect me to stay in this room, safe, while you fought to rescue me from the men who want me dead? When you might need rescuing yourself?’  His lashes swept down to his cheeks.

What could John say to that but, fondly, tenderly, in a voice soft with affection, ‘You are a fool, and I have known no other like you.’

‘That is good.’

John lifted an eyebrow, questioning.

‘I would not want you to know another like me’, said Sherlock, his meaning unequivocal.

John chose to overlook that meaning and, instead, brought the conversation back to a more prosaic topic. ‘From whom did you rob these clothes?’

That evoked a faint smile. Then, ‘The cook’s son’s was easily persuaded to part with his clothes and his father’s paring knife for ten coins from your wages.’ He held up the heavy pouch holding the thousand dinars. ‘I trust this makes up for that theft.’ He dropped it to the floor. Neither man looked at it again.

John could not contain his incredulity. A not unwelcome heat spread inside his chest. ‘You thought to rescue me with a _paring_ knife.’

‘I _did_ rescue you with a paring knife’, Sherlock shot back crossly, sweetly. ‘There was no sword to be found and I did not have the luxury of time to search for one.’

John’s hand slipped to rest on Sherlock’s chest. He said nothing.

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand, his cheeks growing hot, his eyes darkening. ‘You called me a lovely woman. _My_ lovely woman, you said.’

‘You are lovely as a woman’, John affirmed, a half-smile spreading over his lips.

Sherlock fidgeted - a nervous flutter of the dark lashes. A bite of the flushed lower lip. A shallow breath. ‘And- and as a man?’

John’s hand dropped and he took a step back. His eyelids were suddenly heavy. All traces of humour bled out of his voice and quietly, as though it pained him to utter those words, he said, ‘As a man, you are- exquisite… Beautiful. Perfect.’ He pushed himself off the wall and walked to the window, closed his eyes. ‘In two days, you will board a ship that will take you home. You will be safe, with your family.’

‘And you?’

‘I must visit my friend, the Friar.’

‘I will wait for you.’

‘No! You must not delay. You must leave on the next ship.’

‘You do not understand!’ Sherlock groaned at John’s incomprehension. ‘I will _wait_ for you.’

Shocked, John took a moment to breathe. Deeply. His voice shook. ‘You do not know what you are saying.’

Sherlock dropped his head. ‘How long will you be intentionally blind, John? I know exactly what I am saying. And you also do.’

‘I do not.’

‘No? Then is it to end like this between us?’

‘What other way could it possibly end?’

A long moment crept by, fraught. Then Sherlock asked the question John did not have the courage to voice. ‘Must it end?’

‘Of course it must! You are to return to Britain tomorrow.’

‘You can come with me, John.’ His voice was quiet with despair.

‘And then what?’ John challenged. Sherlock said nothing. ‘You think of mad things.’

‘Perhaps I do’, Sherlock snapped. ‘But am I alone in my thinking?’

‘What do you want, Sherlock?’

A pause. Then, ‘You know what I want. I know it is what you also desire.’

‘You _are_ mad’, John said, tonelessly. ‘Your youth makes you mad.’

That was a mistake. Sherlock’s body vibrated with hurt. ‘I understand now’, he said, dropping his head. ‘You see me as a child, a foolish boy….and I cannot change your opinion of me.’ He held still, at war with himself. When he looked up, there was a serenity in the green eyes, the kind of unhappy calm that only comes with acceptance of loss.

He pulled open the door with a minimal movement of arm and wood that felt as though it had slammed against the wall. His voice was low, resigned. ‘You kept your promise and accompanied me to Acre. You have kept me safe from the men who wanted me dead and for that I will always be grateful to you. As there is to be nothing more between us, our association should end here. Farewell, John. I wish you well.’

_No! You cannot leave! It cannot end like this!_

Sherlock turned and opened the door but a hand clasped his forearm.

‘Wait! Where are you going?’

The green eyes swam in pain. Wounded. ‘I am no longer your concern. Unhand me.’ He shook his arm free and walked out of the room. He did not look back.

\----------------

John followed him down a narrow, dark street. Sherlock turned a corner and John picked up the pace. He reached the head of the street and stood there stupidly, seeking Sherlock. But Sherlock had vanished. His heart pounding in his chest, John ran down the length of the short street. There were only two inns, one on either side. The hair on John’s arms stood up. A few windows on the first and second floor glowed yellow with torchlight; shadowed figures joined and separated in what was unmistakeably the act of fornication.

He entered the inn on his left, praying that he could spot Sherlock. Within seconds, it became clear what kind of inn this was. Women were conspicuous by their absence. Men conversed over wine, mostly in pairs but a few groups had formed with three or more men. Young and old, young and young, old and old, touching, whispering, even kissing at some bolder tables at the back. Offers were made, some more overt than others, agreements were reached with the touch of a hand on a shoulder, and eager partners hurried up a staircase to the many rooms where they could conduct their business without fear of censure. Or worse, incarceration and death by the sword.

John sent up another silent prayer for Sherlock to be safe. There must be a God because, at a small table in the far corner of the tavern, familiar curls gleamed darkly under the flames of a burning torch.  

Sherlock was leaning back in his chair, his spine stiff with revulsion as he sought to keep his distance from a burly man, about as old as John, who loomed over him and ran his hands down Sherlock’s arms while his lips murmured promises of a good time. His grip must have grown uncomfortably tight because Sherlock winced. John recalled that Sherlock had taken no weapons with him, not even a knife, when he had departed their room. Now John’s room.

John was not aware of moving but, in the next instant, he found himself standing close to them. They had not seen him.

‘You are not going to turn all shy now, are you?’ the burly man taunted, spreading his thighs suggestively. ‘If I wanted a woman, I would not be here, boy. And neither would you.’

Sherlock flinched and turned his head away. His suitor moved closer but suddenly froze, his eyes lowering to where the tip of a poniard was pressed against his testicles, its intent painfully clear.

‘If you wish to leave this scene a man, you will let him go’, a stony voice growled in his ear.

The man looked into John’s hostile gaze. He stepped back, releasing Sherlock. ‘The boy asked for it’, he explained, holding up his hands. ‘He said he wanted to be-’

John did not want to hear it. ‘The boy does not know what he wants’, he stated, looking at Sherlock.

‘He does’, Sherlock snarled. ‘And he is a man, not a boy!’

‘Be quiet’, John growled at him and redirected his ire at Sherlock’s aggressor. ‘Leave now and do not come near him again. Or you will encounter me. Do you understand?’

‘What are you? His keeper?’

‘I might be. We will be on our way.’

‘I can kill you and take him’, the man snarled.

This was getting tiresome. John rolled his shoulders back and tilted his head, challenging the man to attack him.

The man lunged at him but John took a nimble step back and gracefully unsheathed Invaincu with his other hand. The tip of his poniard was pressed to the man’s chest and, simultaneously, he whipped his sword back, switching the grip and striking a flat, hard blow with the blade to the man’s shoulder. The man staggered backwards and crashed to the floor.

John glared down at his prone figure. ‘Do you wish to keep going?’

‘Get away from me! And take him with you!’

‘I thank you’, John said to the felled man. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him towards the door. Sherlock ungently shook himself free of John’s grasp.

‘What is the matter with you?’ John nearly shouted. ‘Do you _want_ to be violated?’

…

…

‘Sherlock!’

…

‘What is this, Sherlock? Why did you do this?’ he asked, waving his hand in the direction of the burly man. ‘Do you _want_ to be hurt?’

Sherlock’s lips twisted. ‘Please, do not pretend you care for me.’

‘I- care, you fool! I care more than you could know!’

‘Why?’

That one word, so innocently uttered, demanded answers that John could not reveal. He sighed. ‘I want you to stay safe. But you seem determined to invite trouble.’

‘Not- trouble.’

‘Then what was that, if not begging for trouble?’

‘There are things I wish to…learn.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as- how-’. Sherlock stopped. When he spoke again, there was a tremor to his voice. ‘How it feels to lie with a man. Why else would I be here?’

‘Sherlock…’

An admission tumbled from Sherlock’s lips before he could stop himself. ‘I will play woman to a man…’

‘Sherlock…’

‘I know that is the role of the weaker partner, the one who is taken.’

A sad sound slipped from John’s lips. ‘You are wrong…A man who allows himself to be taken is no less a man. And the man who takes is not the stronger. Let no one tell you otherwise. I- I only want you to be safe.’

‘You want me to be safe.’

‘Yes.’

‘You would not harm me.’

‘Never!’

‘Then will _you_ show me?’

‘What fresh insanity is this, Sherlock?’

‘Have you lain with men?’

The direct question was jarring. But John did not lie. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you feel affection for them?’

Another truth. ‘No.’

‘Then why is this insanity? You have had men before. You did not feel affection for them and you do not feel affection for me. How is this different?’

‘Sherlock…’

‘What I seek to learn you can teach me. In return, you will derive pleasure. At least, I think you will.’

‘No! I will not do that! I cannot!’

‘Which is it?’

‘What?’

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘I cannot.’

‘So it is a matter of- desirability.’

‘What?’

‘It would appear…my body is not your… cup of tea’, he miserably recalled the Emir’s expression.

‘Tea?’ John laughed but it was a bitter sound. ‘Ambrosia from Heaven would be as nothing before you, Sherlock. But I cannot.’

‘Why not?’

‘I- I must protect you, not take advantage of you.’

‘It is not taking advantage if the object is freely offered. And it is a selfish offer, John. I want this.’

John’s voice was hard. ‘No.’

Another mistake. Sherlock’s eyes turned to steel. He saw that John would not be moved and neither would he. ‘I am an adult, John. If you will not give me what I ask, then you must not intervene when I find another man.’

‘Please, do not do this, I beg you.’

‘Is your only concern for my safety?’

It was harder to perjure himself than he had imagined but John managed it. ‘Yes’, he said.

A flash of bitter disappointment appeared in the green gaze. ‘Then I promise you I will not endanger myself.’

…

‘John?’ Sherlock waited until John looked at him. ‘I will not endanger myself and you will not intervene. Are we agreed?’

‘Very well.’

\---------------------

John had agreed not to intervene but he had not agreed to leave the tavern. Consequently, he was seated at a table, staring at but not seeing the food on the plate before him. Or the goblet of wine next to the plate. He sat, immobile, impervious to the cacophonous conversation around him. Men at his table attempted to engage his interest, assuming that he sought a companion for the night, but gave up when their advances did not elicit the slightest acknowledgement from him. How could he care about anything when Sherlock sat three tables away, leaning close to the man sitting across the table, his head less than a handspan away from that of his suitor?

The intimacy of their quiet, comfortable conversation was corrosive to John. The man courting Sherlock was closer in age to Sherlock than to John and possessed of a much more handsome appearance. His large brown eyes were captivated by Sherlock and it was quite obvious that his fawning attention was intoxicating to Sherlock. He would be a kind, attentive lover.

A dark feeling reared its ugly head inside John. This was exactly the kind of man he would choose for Sherlock’s first time, if he should be that presumptuous. That selfless or self-delusional. Sherlock smiled, stroking his suitor’s forearm, and whispered something, and the man laughed, utterly charmed by what Sherlock had said. The abhorrent sound reached John’s ears and his eyes burned.

He looked up and flinched when he gazed into dark green irises. Sherlock’s head was turned to him, devoid of the allure he had employed with the young man wooing him. His unsmiling eyes fell on John’s fist, unconsciously clenching and releasing under the table, then lifted again to meet John’s gaze. The dark feeling inside John turned black. He slammed his fist on the table and rose from his seat.

Turning on his heel, he left Sherlock and his admirer at the table and fled the inn. He roamed the streets of Acre, lost, aimless. A single thought filled his mind – Sherlock would lie with that young man and everything would be different in the morning. Everything would be lost. No, that was not right. He could not lose something that was never his. The stars had come out and the moon had grown small and distant. Passers-by dwindled in number as Acre slowly went to sleep. He staggered back to the Inn of the Faithful and dragged his feet up the stairs to their- his room. He entered the room and stood in the middle of the floor, seething. Confused, angry, and afraid of his uncontrolled reaction.

‘Why did you leave?’ said the voice he dared not hope to hear. A figure moved out of the shadows and stepped into the light.

He did not look up. ‘Go back to that boy. He will not hurt you. He will give you what you seek.’

‘I do not want a boy, John. I want a man. I want you.’

‘Why me?’

‘How can you not know? Do you not see?’ Sherlock asked, his voice soft with uncertainty.

‘And you? Do _you_ not see?’ John cried, his eyes blazing. ‘Look at me, Sherlock! I am so much older than you!’

A look of incomprehension crossed Sherlock’s face. ‘You say that as if it should be important to me.’

‘It should be. Look at my hair’, John said, grasping it with his hand and lifting it up so Sherlock could see the gray. ‘It ages before its time.’

‘Gold has never looked as lovely as it does when woven with silver.’

‘Sherlock… this is not right.’

‘Do not turn me away, John. Please.’

John lifted his head to look at Sherlock and was struck by the yearning in his eyes. The young man stood before him, waiting to be touched, desperate to be accepted. His raw hunger had an incongruous quality of innocence, of purity.

‘Please’, Sherlock whispered again. ‘I need-’

In this moment, John wielded so much power over Sherlock yet he had never felt more powerless. ‘Have you kissed anyone before?’

‘No.’ It was the truth.

‘Are you certain you want this?’

‘I am.’ Another truth.

John’s voice grew thick with desire. ‘Do not give me… everything, Sherlock’, he begged.

‘I already have!’

John felt the walls of restraint tumble down, one by one. Still he tried. The last crucial argument. ‘There will come a day when you meet the one person who -’. He was stopped by a warm finger on his lips.

‘I already have’, Sherlock whispered, looking at John with such vulnerability that there could be no doubting his meaning.

‘You are a fool’, John huffed sadly, ‘and I am a bigger fool for I cannot deny you anything.’

He took a step towards Sherlock but the hand dropped from his lips to his chest. John waited.

‘Is that the only reason why? Do you do this only because I wish it?’

‘Sherlock... how it is that you are blind to my truth?’

Hope surged in the wide, glimmering eyes. ‘So I am wrong?’

‘Give me your mouth and let me show you how wrong you are.’

Sherlock took a resolute step forward, dipped his head and placed his mouth over John’s longing lips.

It was nothing like John had imagined. This was not a kiss. It was a wound. An open, hot, wet press of skin over skin, unschooled, brutal in its honesty. The heat of Sherlock’s desperation seared John’s skin, lacking all finesse, stripped bare to the most authentic expression of need. Sherlock’s fingers clutched the front of John’s tunic, desperately holding him close for fear that John would push him away.

‘God help me’, John despaired, his breath shivering against Sherlock’s scorching lips, ‘for you have plundered me, my darling.’

The endearment skittered over Sherlock’s skin like a caress. ‘Then it is only fair that I am plundered by you, is it not?’ he offered shakily, but with ineluctable logic.

John sighed against his mouth. He pushed his fingers into the thick curls and tilted Sherlock’s head so he could drink in Sherlock’s strangled, frantic sob when his lips claimed that starving mouth.

‘My beautiful darling’, he moaned.


	13. Chapter 13

They kissed, a slow give and take of tongue and teeth. Slow only because John dominated the kiss to bridle Sherlock’s rampant fervour. An overriding need burned between them, made all the more ardent by Sherlock’s fevered breathing. The soft sounds rumbling in his throat were tearing at John’s restraint.

‘Slow down, darling’, John whispered against urgent lips without much hope. ‘We have all night.’

‘And all of tomorrow’, Sherlock reminded him with a shiver. ‘Yet I cannot. I want- I want-’, he gasped.

‘And I’, John assured him and took his mouth again, possessed it. Lips touching and parting, exchanging wet heat. Shared breaths. Fingers stroking, pressing, squeezing. He slipped his arms under Sherlock’s and around his back. Sherlock squeaked, a surprised sound, when he was jerked into a hard embrace, uncomfortably tight. Flesh crushed against flesh. Sherlock moaned, his body submitting to the proprietary movement of John’s hands over his skin.

John’s arms curled tighter and Sherlock’s arousal grew into a hard shaft against his belly. The tumescence was wonderfully warm, explicit evidence of his desire. So large and eager. Pulsing so strongly with youthful vigour. A craving to touch naked skin consumed John. He took a step back, disengaging himself from the beautiful body in his arms. At the moment of separation, a physical ache coursed through his limbs. Sherlock seemed similarly bereft for he whimpered and blindly reached for him but John’s hand on his chest held him back.

‘I should like to see you, Sherlock’, he pleaded softly. ‘All of you.’ A blush spread over Sherlock’s cheeks and down his neck. John was disarmed. ‘Lord, you will be my ruination.’

‘As you are mine’, Sherlock said, looking at John through lowered lashes. He tugged on John’s tunic.

John made quick work of his clothes and stood naked before Sherlock. He waited while Sherlock’s eyes slowly swept over his body. A wellspring of sensation, not entirely comfortable, gurgled inside him when long fingers gently brushed the scar on his shoulder, the thick welts on his back, the still-tingling wound under his ribs from a poisoned Saracen scimitar that had, not a week ago, almost ended his life.

Sherlock’s eyes were sad. They lingered on this last scar. Sufyan’s medicine was very effective but John knew what Sherlock was thinking.

His voice was calm, deep, the voice of a man who had looked death in the eye many times before and prevailed. ‘You must not blame yourself’, he said.

Sherlock’s voice was a thin whisper. ‘You could have-’

‘I could have, but you did not let that happen.’

Sherlock shook his head tightly, as if flicking away unwelcome thoughts. His fingers were tentative, wondering. He gently touched the multiple areas of raised flesh on John’s torso, tracing their shapes, feeling the different texture of skin there. ‘So many…’, his words trailed off absently.

That gave John pause. A stray pang of doubt pinched his insides. None of his previous bedmates had ever been perturbed enough by his scars to study them. His single objective in lying with them had been to give and take sexual gratification. But with Sherlock…it was different. A vague sense of discomfort fluttered inside him; the ground under his feet felt unsteady.

Did Sherlock only see scars when he looked at him? Did he see a wounded, broken man before him, or a warrior? John’s arousal waned a little. Sympathy for his past was loathsome to him. It was not something he had ever given himself or sought from anyone else, and Sherlock was no exception.

But Sherlock had not noticed John’s unease for he completed his thought, and everything changed. ‘So many… battles’, he said softly, marvelling at what might have been. ‘I could have lost you so many times. We might never have met.’ There was a hitch in his voice.

John’s desire made a strident return to his cock. His words trembled with gladness. ‘But we did meet and we stand here now, Sherlock.’ Dark lashes swept up and he looked into wet, green pools. He needed to banish all sadness from that lovely gaze. ‘My beautiful boy, I should like to look at you.’ He flashed a seductive, direct smile at his young companion.

That evoked a slight shift in Sherlock. ‘You are looking at me’, he smirked with a brief lift of one cheek. The impertinent rascal was intentionally tormenting John by interpreting his words literally. ‘As I am looking at you.’

Affection bloomed inside John, a warm, liquid feeling. He smiled, helpless. ‘Yet I am at a disadvantage, am I not?’

A thick, dark eyebrow lifted.

‘It is hardly fair that I stand before you as God made me while you remain respectably clothed.’

Mischief glimmered in the green eyes. ‘What do you want, then?’

‘I want to feast on much more than just your lovely face.’ Enough teasing, John decided. He dropped his voice an octave and his words came out in a low growl. ‘If you will not shed your clothes, I will undress you myself.’

‘Is that a warning or a promise?’

‘I will let you decide.’

The flush on Sherlock’s cheeks deepened and the vein running down his neck quickened its throbbing, yet he made no move to take his clothes off. Defiantly, he tossed up his head, the soft curls bouncing on his forehead. His wish was obvious.

‘I see’, John smiled. He placed his palms on Sherlock's sides, light over the coarse fabric of his tunic, and pushed up. The scrape of the linen over the sensitive skin sent a shiver of pleasure through Sherlock and he obediently lifted his arms in compliance with John’s wishes. The tunic was pulled over Sherlock’s head and dropped to the floor. Just as easily, his trousers were pushed down his hips and the heavy fabric pooled at his feet.

John took his hand and looked down at his feet stepping out of the pile of black folds.

‘John…’, Sherlock whispered, his cheeks burning, his nakedness on display to John. His arousal sought attention, and John was happy to give it.

With one hand, he warmly clasped Sherlock’s slender hip and ran the fingers of his other hand slowly down Sherlock’s length, teasing the flesh with his knuckles. Then he clasped the stimulated flesh and began to stroke it, from thick root to swollen tip, feeling the heated silk quiver under his touch. It was splendid, hot and alive, throbbing with Sherlock’s own heartbeat. John might as well have been holding Sherlock’s heart in his palm. Large hands grasped his shoulders and squeezed, hard, when John pressed his thumb down on the thick vein running along the underside. His exploring hand released Sherlock’s cock and cupped his large, heavy sac, fondled its firm, twin contents.

‘John!’ cried Sherlock, burying his face in John’s neck. ‘I cannot wait’, he moaned, thrusting against John’s hand, his body picking up an instinctive rhythm.

‘Not yet, darling. I wish to touch you first.’

‘This is torture!’ Sherlock complained.

‘You will thank me after’, John grinned.

‘I doubt it. This is cruel. You are a cruel man!’

John chuckled but released his groin to touch the rest of him. His palms exerted a light pressure over Sherlock’s body, memorising its shape, the feel of his youthful flesh, unyielding and sculpted over the long limbs and slender flanks but swelling into firm, full buttocks that begged to be squeezed, kneaded.

‘Give me your mouth, Sherlock’, he commanded and Sherlock dutifully lifted his head and held his parted lips over John’s.

At the first touch of mouths, John’s playful desire turned ascetic, a burning imperative to possess, and he claimed Sherlock as his. He kissed with a madness, the sweep of his tongue sending a continuous quiver down Sherlock’s body all the way to his toes. Sherlock was making ragged sounds of need, rough and desperate, and John hungrily pulled his cries out of him and swallowed them all down.

They did not know how or when it happened but they must have moved as one for Sherlock was on his back on the broad bed and John was draped over him, still kissing, as if each man’s breath kept the other alive. Sherlock was a quick study in the ways of sensuality; he dragged his mouth away to torment John with little licks to his lips, nibbling on the wet flesh, nibbling along his jawline and swiping his tongue over the curve of his earlobe. Sensuality subsided to tenderness when Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow and pressed an achingly soft kiss to the sensitive skin behind his ear. John groaned, yearning to take this beautiful boy beneath him.

‘Sherlock…’, he choked out.

A small movement under him drew Sherlock’s cock along John’s belly, leaving a thin trail of wetness behind. Desire slammed into John and he shifted his hips to align his cock next to Sherlock’s. The heat seared into him, like a brand. Taking them both in one hand, he started a slow, rocking motion, up and down, alternately tightening and loosening his grip. Their tips began to bead with wet evidence of their shared need. He used the slick fluid to ease the movement of his hand. His palm and curling fingers now glided over steely velvet.

Sherlock’s body was rigid under him. His thighs fell open and John sank into the space created between his legs. The sweat-damp skin on the insides of Sherlock’s thighs slid down John’s hips. John pulled harder. Faster. Sherlock’s stomach clenched. John’s buttocks flexed and the muscles in his back strained. Their hips moved against each other, driving their cocks into the circle of John’s fingers. The arm on which John was holding himself up began to ache in the shoulder. Still they kissed and kissed. A strangled sound rose from Sherlock’s chest and reached his lips as a cry. John drank in the moan. They were close. So close. John could feel Sherlock holding himself back, wanting to stretch this delicious moment out longer.

He pulled off his mouth. ‘Give in to me, darling’, he begged once before dropping his mouth over Sherlock’s again. He had hoped they would come undone together but now could not hold his own pleasure back. He was too far gone. One thrust, hard, rough, and he shattered with a muffled shout against those needy, noisy lips. His own release spilled over his hand. A different warmth joined him just as Sherlock moaned loudly into his mouth. Their flesh palpitated in his hand, jointly spurting wet ribbons of white that covered their bellies with the sticky outcome of their shared pleasure.

John held them through the aftershocks. He dropped soft kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks, his chin, his taut neck, the salty skin of his forehead, now glistening with sweat.

Sherlock’s eyes were shut tight. His mouth remained open, chest rising and falling rapidly while he panted, shallow, wheezing sounds that grew deeper and longer as he slowly came back into his body. John watched him, enchanted by his beauty in this vulnerable moment. It was almost unbearable to see him like this, glowing with satiation, his radiance lighting up the dim room like a source of diffused, white incandescence, brighter than the moon.

Then Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him and John was blinded. Adoration like he had never known for another person erupted inside him. His mother had named his sword _Invaincu_ for that is how she saw her son. Unconquered. Yet he now he lay abjectly defeated. Conquered by this boy. He surrendered to the knowledge that he _was_ broken, wounded, never to be whole again for Sherlock had created a place for himself inside John that no one else could ever fill. How could surrender feel like victory? Like paradise?

He must have been staring because Sherlock smiled at him, a slow, hesitant curl of his lips, and said, ‘You have not blinked in several minutes. What is it that you see in me?’

John had to think for a few moments before he could satisfactorily answer Sherlock. He said, simply, truthfully, ‘Everything.’

His meaning was not lost on Sherlock. Warm lips pressed up into his, tenderly. They kissed again. Slower this time. Content.

‘Good’, Sherlock eventually sighed. ‘That was…’, he broke off, frowning.

‘It was’, John agreed. It was whatever Sherlock thought it was.

Sherlock pulled his stomach in so he could slip in a hand between their flat bellies. His fingers came back sticky. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Moist’, he laughed.

John laughed with him, a rich, warm sound. Comfortable and intimate.

Sherlock ran his sticky fingers over John’s beard. ‘You should rid yourself of this tomorrow.’

‘I thought you approved’, John countered with a slow tilt of his head.

He pulled Sherlock’s hand back and sucked the tips of his fingers clean. Sherlock shuddered.

‘I did, as long as you were playing a soulless killer.’ He pressed a kiss to John’s cheekbone. And then kissed his eyebrow, his forehead, his nose and settled on his lips. ‘But I prefer my healers to be handsome and of upstanding countenance.’

Sherlock moved his body under John’s, slowly rubbing their bellies so that their seed spread over their skin. It felt filthy and debauched. It felt glorious.

‘Handsome?’ John prodded, heavy-lidded, basking in the unexpected pleasure of Sherlock’s attention, his warm nakedness. He kissed Sherlock’s neck and gently drew his nose up the soft skin behind his ear. Another kiss. A frisson.

‘Annoyingly so’, Sherlock grumbled his confirmation. He kissed John’s left cheek. ‘Distractingly so.’ A kiss to the right cheek. ‘Delightfully so.’

‘I could kiss you all night’, John blurted.

‘You could’, Sherlock offered.

So John did.

When he was satisfied that he had stolen enough of Sherlock’s husky cries and reddened his lips enough, he rose from the bed. A pitcher sat on the floor, next to two goblets. Pouring water onto Sherlock’s scarf, he approached his young lover and wiped his torso with the wet cloth, cleaning off the film of hardening ejaculate. Next, he cleaned himself and tossed the soiled cloth away.

‘Now?’ Sherlock asked him.

‘Now, you lie back and let me have you again’, John murmured as he kissed his way down Sherlock’s slender torso.

When he took Sherlock in his mouth, his flesh was swollen again, resurgent with desire. His tongue licked over the bulbous tip, tasting the salty pearl there, and Sherlock’s flat stomach went concave. John looked up to see a deep, fluttering hollow of skin and muscle under Sherlock’s ribs as his back arched up. One arm was raised and he bit his hand to muffle his cries. The dark, wispy hair under his arms was clumped with sweat. The other hand grasped John’s shoulder. His body glistened. It twisted and clenched and twisted again. So beautiful.

John lavished his attention on the burgeoning flesh, drawing it into his mouth, taking it deep, then deeper still until he felt the head push against his throat. Inside his mouth, Sherlock’s cock grew hard and long. Outside, Sherlock’s musk, his taste, his scent saturated his senses.

He swallowed around the spongy head. Sherlock cried out. A hand came down to tug on John’s hair, to pull his head up. He groaned his dissent, the rumble traveling through Sherlock’s trembling body, and closed his hand over Sherlock’s to jointly push down on his head. Sherlock understood but even through the haze of desire, he hesitated. He would not hurt John. John pushed down on his hand again.

This time, Sherlock’s hips began moving slowly, thrusting up into John’s mouth while his hand pushed down on John’s head. A slow rhythm took over. Up and down, up and down, a hypnotic rocking motion. John breathed hard through his nose, leaving his jaws loose and throat open, saliva running down his chin as Sherlock made use of his mouth.

Warm thighs shuddered on either side of John and he knew it was time. Sherlock’s legs lifted up to press his ankles into the small of John’s back. The first spurt came as a surprise. Salty, thick. Lovely. John sucked harder. Another spurt, then another. His mouth was flooded with Sherlock. He took it all in, grateful for this. Greedy, in fact, for Sherlock, swallowing around the pulsing head. Sherlock was inside him like no man before. There would be no other after him. He was John’s first and his last, in more ways than John could enumerate.

Sherlock’s hands slipped down to his sides and grabbed the sheets. John sucked him through his climax, listening to his cries for signs that he should soften his wet grasp on Sherlock’s sensitised cock. When the quivering stopped, John lovingly pulled his mouth up and dropped the shrinking flesh onto Sherlock’s belly with a soft _pop_. He kissed the flushed tip, so lovely in its release, and kissed it again. Because he could not stop kissing Sherlock, he licked at the tight tendon at the crease of Sherlock’s thigh, nibbled on the thin skin there, sucked on Sherlock’s sharp hip bone, curled his tongue into the calyx of his navel, dropped wet kisses to his ribs, the lean muscles on his chest and closed his lips around the dusky pebbled nipples.

Through all this, Sherlock had not touched him. When John realised that, he lifted his head and saw that Sherlock’s face was turned away from him, one side pressed into the pillow. He pulled away and sat up.

‘Sherlock…’, he called out softly. ‘Was that not-?’

Sherlock did not respond. John slipped his hand between Sherlock’s cheek and the pillow, cupping his face, turning it towards him. ‘Sherlock’, he said again. ‘Please, look at me, darling.’

His fingers felt wetness.

‘No, Sherlock, please, look at me.’ John leaned down and dropped kisses over Sherlock’s face.

Willowy arms closed around his neck and pulled him down. Sherlock’s lips parted under his and a despairing tongue licked inside his mouth, seeking himself inside John. They were kissing again. They seemed incapable of doing anything beyond that because they kissed frantically, as though it helped them live. Perhaps it did.

‘Come with me, John’, Sherlock begged. ‘Stay with me.’

John was torn. He wanted nothing more than to return to Britain with Sherlock and spend the rest of his days in his arms. John had no family awaiting his return but Sherlock did. John would return to an empty Castle Northumberland, to resume his duties as Duke of Northumberland, but Sherlock would recommence his societal role as the son of the Earl of Huntingdon, a privilege that entailed certain obligations. It would be his duty to marry a woman of equal birth and produce an heir. It would be his duty to carry on the Earldom after his adoptive father passed. Should his forbidden acts with John be discovered, they would both be put to the sword or burned at the stake. There was only one thing to do.

‘Sherlock, my darling, sleep now. We will speak of this in the morning.’

They fell into each other, kissing, sighing, pulling away briefly to look at each other and then kissing again. After a long while, Sherlock’s breathing started to slow and lengthen. He fell asleep against John’s chest.

John stayed awake all night, staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his pillow, the other wrapped around Sherlock’s thin shoulders.

\-------------

The rooster crowed at the break of dawn. Sherlock stirred in the bed and instinctively reached out an arm, seeking John. The bed was empty. He sat up with a start and searched the chamber. Also empty. Panic gripped him. He threw off the sheet covering him and saw a piece of parchment float to the floor.

He picked it up. It was a note from John. As he read it, the ground opened under him.

 

 

> _Sherlock, my darling,_
> 
> _Forgive me for leaving you this way. I know I seem cruel to you in this moment, but if you have ever trusted me before, trust me now when I say it is for the best. In the years to come, you will understand that I had no choice. We had no choice._
> 
> _I will not do anything that would put you in danger. To continue our association in Britain would be a death sentence. I cannot allow you to be harmed, ever._
> 
> _You are young. Your life lies ahead of you. Joy will find you again eventually and I will become a distant memory. There will come a day when you have taken a wife and watch your children play and grow before your eyes. Then our brief time together will forgotten. Because you will have found happiness._
> 
> _I was so alone, and I owe you so much. You breathed life back into this lifeless soldier, yet I repay you with pain. How terribly I regret this, my dearest. Forgive me, I beg you. If it is any consolation, know that I suffer also, more than you could know, and that I will continue to suffer for the rest of my days. For you are the light in my life and always will be. Without you, I only have darkness._
> 
> _-John_

The parchment fluttered from Sherlock’s fingers to the floor. His eyes were dry this time.

\-----------

Dawn broke again and the rooster answered his biological instinct by announcing the sunrise. John had left the bag with the thousand dinars in the chamber. Sherlock handed it to the cook’s son who, once he had swallowed his disbelief, arranged for Sherlock to bathe and outfitted him with a fresh set of clothes and boots. He also packed meals for Sherlock and two spare sets of clothes. The boy called his father in before Sherlock could leave. The cook blubbered, as Sherlock expected, at the sight of that much money. He refused to take it but Sherlock insisted. The cook finally agreed and gave Sherlock a hundred dinars to take with him, to help make his way back to Britain. Nine hundred dinars would last the cook and his son a lifetime. He was a widower but he fancied that he might also win a new wife with this unexpected windfall.

When Sherlock walked out of the back exit, they were still thanking him.

He proceeded to the port of Acre where a large white Crusader nef bobbed on the waters, waiting to depart for Cyprus. A large red cross was emblazoned on its billowing, white sail. The winds were strong, the sky a clear blue, not a cloud in sight. Seagulls cried out their joy. It was a wonderful day to go home. But inside Sherlock was a bottomless vacuum. He felt nothing.

He knew John was watching him then, just as he knew John had kept a watch on him the previous day. John was a man of his word and had sworn to keep Sherlock safe, even if it were from a distance.

But Sherlock did not search the crowds for John. He would not torture himself like that. He boarded the nef. Weary Crusaders greeted him with wide smiles. They were going home to their families and expressed gladness that he was, too. He feigned interest in their stories until he navigated the throng of eager knights to cross the deck and reach the bow. He stood there alone, undisturbed. Lonely.

The nef started to move. Sherlock felt the wind in his hair. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin up, enjoying the stretch in his neck, the warm rays of the sun bathing his skin. He did not think about Acre, about the part of himself he was leaving behind. The man he was leaving behind. For that man had made a decision and Sherlock would abide by it. What other choice did he have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Part 1, as it were. Part 2 picks up in Britain with more plot-filled action, angst and, of course, their HEA. See you on the other side!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Britain...

Twelve weeks later

‘Uncle!’ came a youthful cry followed by rapid footfalls echoing down the long stone corridor that led to the study in Castle Northumberland.

John looked up from the book he was reading at the young man whose head had popped in through the door. ‘What has you so breathless, Theo?’ he asked, smiling at the ruddy face of his gasping young squire.

‘The King is dead, my lord!’ the boy panted. ‘He was killed in battle!’ Theo’s mouth opened, then closed and opened again, like a fish that wanted to say more but was surprised by the lack of surprise on John’s face.

John grimly rose to his feet. ‘When? Who brought this news?’

‘My lord, a messenger from the court of Prince-regent Charles just now delivered this news and demanded your presence in London at the earliest. The Prince-regent is to be crowned King three days hence and all of Britain’s nobles are required to gather in London for the coronation.’

‘Hmm…it was only a matter of time’, John remarked absently, a faint frown appearing between his eyebrows.

Theo did not understand. ‘Uncle?’ he asked but John was preoccupied.

It was a full two minutes before Theo hazarded another interruption. ‘My lord…?’

John came back to himself. ‘Have you been to London before?’ he asked Theo.

‘I have not had the privilege, my lord. The boundaries of Northumberland have defined the extent of my travels.’

‘Then you shall accompany me to London, if your father will agree.’

Unrestrained excitement lit up the young man’s expressive face. ‘I daresay my father will gladly be rid of me for a few days, my lord!’

‘No, he will not, because Sir Gregory will be joining us. First, ask your father to join me here. It has been too long since I spoke at length with my dear friend.’

‘At once, my lord’, said Theo. He bowed and retreated from the study, closing the door behind him and leaving John pacing the floor in solitude.

\----------

A short while later, a knock on the door made John stop and look up. John’s brother-in-law had entered. Sir Gregory Lestrade was a handsome man, taller than John and older than his thirty-one years by ten years. The Gray Wolf of Northumberland, John called him fondly. It was an apt sobriquet, for his hair was already more silver than black and the skin around his blue eyes was creased with life experience. He bore a faint resemblance to his sister, John’s deceased wife, and his comportment exuded dependability and sagacity. After John’s late father, Sir Gregory was the man he trusted the most.

‘Gregory’, said John. ‘Please, sit. I have not had the pleasure of your company since my return.’

Gregory made himself comfortable in a large armchair. John offered him a goblet with wine and sipped the heady drink from his own goblet. Gregory breathed in the rich, smooth aroma and made a sound of appreciation. A comfortable quietude settled between them. Gregory had barely spoken with John since the latter’s return from Acre and this invitation to John’s study was much awaited. Their exchanges had always felt like continuations of previous conversations, never new threads, but this time something had changed. John had changed.

Encouraged by this solicitation to speak, Gregory started, ‘John…, you seem different.’

John met his inquiring gaze and said, ‘War can change a man.’

‘That is so, but no…’, said Gregory, shaking his head. ‘No. I have seen you return from wars before. This time is different.’

‘It is your imagination, Gregory’, John said, his words coming out unintentionally sharp. Dismissive. ‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked, altering the subject.

Gregory had been brushed off like this before, but he was John’s closest friend and John was his. He would return to his questions later. For now, he humoured John. ‘Theo just told me. So another of your second cousins is to be crowned King’, he remarked, referring to John’s relation to Britain’s rulers as the son of King Henry’s cousin, George.

John nodded tightly. ‘Yes…’

Gregory’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes… but?’

‘The King could not have died in battle.’

‘How else would he have died?’

John was lost in thought.

‘John.’

John jerked his head up at the sound of his name. ‘Shortly before I set sail for Britain’, he recounted, ‘I received incontrovertible evidence that the King had been struck down by an incurable malady that only grew worse with each passing day. He had been rushed to his camp where his healers struggled, in vain, to cure him. The symptoms unmistakeably pointed to poisoning – the King had been administered lethal doses of hemlock, wolfsbane and nightshade laced with belladonna. Whoever wished him dead was leaving nothing to chance. Even if he could walk on his own two legs, no rational healer would allow him to return to the battlefield.’

Gregory stayed quiet but held John’s eyes. Then, ‘Incontrovertible evidence, you say?’

‘Hmm.’

‘There is something you are not telling me.’

John walked over to the window overlooking a large garden.

‘John…’

‘I boarded a small coaster from Acre to Cyprus where I would have to spend a night before the next nef sailed for Britain. Later that same evening, two Templars approached me in a tavern. They said a very important Crusader, whose identity they would not disclose, was gravely ill and in need of a skilled physician. The Crusader had specifically asked for me, and my presence in Cyprus then was propitious. I agreed to go with them and was taken, blindfolded and under cover of night, to a large tent where I beheld the suffering Crusader.’

He turned around. Gregory was still watching him. ‘It was King Richard. He lay on damp white sheets darkened with his sweat.’

Gregory’s mouth opened slightly but he said nothing.

‘From my first look at his frail, fevered form, I knew that he could not be saved.’ A muscle jumped in John’s jaw; his eyes took on a distant look. ‘I prepared a febrifuge and other palliatives but knew that it would only be a matter of days before Richard would succumb to the poisons corroding his insides. For some reason, news of his death was delayed until now.’

Gregory’s hands covered his mouth. ‘Lord, that is…’, he said, blowing out a sharp breath into the cup of his palms. Shock staunched further speech.

‘I stayed by Richard’s side for three days. He drifted in and out of consciousness but briefly wrested control of his faculties long enough to ask me for a summary of his situation and a prognosis. I was truthful. He took the news as a King would. Despite the terrible ague destroying his body, he thanked me for serving in his army and making him comfortable. Then he asked if I would continue to serve his heir after him. I swore to always be loyal to the King.’

He paused for questions but Gregory did not interrupt.

‘That was not the answer he was expecting for he grasped my wrist in a grip surprisingly strong for someone as weak as he was then, looked directly at me and said “ _damy, ya warith haqiqi yjb 'an takun wahdaha almalik_ ”, Arabic for “ _my blood, my true heir alone must be King_ ”. In his fervour he had lifted himself on his elbows and his face was so close to mine that I could see the dark specks in his pellucid manic eyes. Then he said _“la tathiq bi’ahd”_ , or “ _trust no one”_. I did not understand what he meant and still do not, but swore allegiance to his blood, his true heir alone.’

‘Charles’, said Gregory.

‘That is what I thought. That is what anyone would think’, said John, ‘if their obvious enmity can be overlooked.’

‘The King must have made his peace with his brother on his last visit here.’

‘I did not take you for a naive man, Gregory. Do you not see what is happening?’

‘I believe I know what _you_ think is happening, John, but I must caution you against saying such things beyond these walls. The nation is at war, bloodless within its borders and bloody without. No one can be trusted.’

‘I understand your concern, but within these walls, in _my_ castle, I may speak freely with my most trusted friend.’ He waited for Gregory’s tacit assurance that he could share his most controversial theories with him.

‘You may always speak freely with me, John’, said Gregory with a smile of acknowledgement. He leaned back in his chair, settling in for what he knew was the most crucial part of this exchange. ‘Very well, tell me what you think.’

John’s voice was low, his words grave. ‘Britain’s aristocrats are Charles’ strongest supporters and like an obedient puppet, he has consistently put their interests above those of the nation starting with his opposition of the Saladin Tithe, imposed by his own father.’

‘But that is a good thing, John! The Saladin Tithe is laying waste to the country, sucking the lifeblood out of Britain’s already impoverished working class in most counties.’

‘Yes, I know…’

‘How can you know? You have been away, fighting with the King. But I know what the Tithe has done to Britain. Passing through Lancashire, Yorkshire and Durham on my way back from Cheshire, I was horrified by what I saw! Peasants and blacksmiths and butchers, simple, honest folk who struggle to put food in their babes’ mouths, were being beaten or even excommunicated and imprisoned when they were unable to pay their share!’

‘Why do you think that is?’ John challenged, his lips twisted with bitterness. ‘And when do you suppose this oppression began?’

Gregory did not respond and John continued.

‘Despite his military ambitions, King Henry cared for his people. When he levied the Tithe shortly before he died, it applied only to the peerage. Richard continued that tradition, but his being an absentee king worked in Charles’ favour.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When Richard left to fight in the Holy Land, Charles attempted to rescind the Tithe altogether but the Church of England would not permit that. Charles then very shrewdly invoked his powers as Prince-regent to amend the terms of the Tithe and revoke the stipulation that the tallage be paid by aristocrats only. To the unsuspecting eye, it was a _broadening_ of the law to encourage larger collections when, in actuality, it favoured his benefactors.’

Gregory picked up on John’s contention and took it to its logical conclusion. ‘With the source of the levies no longer of consequence, the wealthy ceased dipping into their own coffers and began, instead, to raise the required taxes from their already penurious citizens. Lord!’ he blew out a breath. Then his eyes widened with a sudden thought. He looked up at John, a renewed respect in his expression. ‘John… you have cared for the good folk of Northumberland, have you not?’

‘I know not what you mean’, John said, although he knew exactly what Gregory was going to say.

‘You have sent me to Cheshire every six months for the past few years to hand over a sum of ten thousand pounds to the Archbishop there, but you did not tell me the intended purpose of that sum of money. It was Northumberland’s portion of the Tithe, was it not?’

John’s silence was his affirmation.

‘As a Duke and a Crusader yourself, you have been excused from the Tithe. Yet you contributed all of Northumberland’s share from your personal wealth and collected nothing from your people.’ His throat felt choked with deep admiration.

‘Is that not what a leader does?’ John asked, trivialising his generosity.

‘It is what a _good_ leader does, John. You are kind. But the rest of Britain’s avaricious aristocracy must have no good leaders for what I witnessed would make the stoniest heart bleed.’

John looked out at his garden. ‘This is only the beginning.’ A faraway look appeared in his eyes under hooded lids. The air in the study seemed to grow heavy with a sense of foreboding. ‘There is something very… rotten at the heart of England. And I believe it leads right into London.’

Gregory thought about that for a long moment. ‘John…I think you are right.’

John looked over at him, intrigued.

‘You said the King asked you to swear allegiance to “his blood, his true heir.”’

‘Yes…?’ said John, his voice trailing up in a question.

‘The Prince-regent is the King’s brother, but not by blood. They are _half_ brothers, are they not?’

‘Indeed’, John said softly, laying out his cousins’ parentage out in his mind.

Richard’s mother was Lady Eleanor of Aquitaine. After her death, King Henry married her sister, Isabelle, who bore Charles a few years later. John’s jaw clenched with realisation. Charles was not Richard’s blood, and consequently not his true heir. But Richard’s strategic alliance to Queen Rhoslyn had been annulled and he had died childless. For the moment, John ascribed Richard’s hysterical exhortation on his deathbed to his delirium. He would delve deeper into the circumstances of Richard’s death. But later. He rubbed his jaw and moved his hand over his nape, massaging the stiff muscles in his neck.

‘You must rest’, said Gregory, concern writ large on his expressive face. ‘You are expected in London for the coronation.’

‘Will you accompany me?’

‘I most certainly shall. But may I ask you something? About you.’

Carelessly, John said, ‘You may ask me anything, old friend.’

‘Something has changed in you.’

‘Please, Gregory, I do not- ’

‘Listen to me, John! A deep melancholy fills the space inside you where there once was emptiness. What new despair haunts your soul like this? What happened in Acre?’

‘It is nothing.’

‘John…, I believe you showed my sister more consideration than any woman in a betrothal of convenience could hope to be shown. I would even say you loved her, in your own way. She was fortunate to have you as her husband and I am fortunate to have found my dearest friend in all the world. But she left you and you mourn her. Or you did, until you returned.’ Gregory stared pointedly at the hilt of _Invaincu_. The chain with the two gold rings was no longer strung around the bejewelled grip.

John fixed him with a sidelong glance. ‘I will mourn my wife and my unborn son until the day I die. I loved her. You know that.’

‘You loved her but you were not in love with her.’

‘You must be spending too much time in the company of poets, Gregory, for you spout fanciful nonsense’, John mocked his friend, attempting to terminate this line of questioning. ‘I believe your estimation of your eloquence is unrealistically high.’

‘Is it? I know you better than you realise, John. I believe you found the woman you have been seeking all your life. In Acre. I believe you fell in love.’

John did not deny the assertion and Gregory continued. ‘Yet you returned alone.’

‘Gregory, I do not wish to speak of this.’

‘Was she another man’s?’

John’s stoic silence exasperated Gregory. ‘John! It hurts me to see you grieve like this. Please, share your burdens with me!’

John pondered his offer for a moment. Then he said, ‘No.’

‘No?’ Gregory asked, assuming John meant he would not discuss the matter with him. Then he read John’s true answer in his face.

‘Was she of British descent?’

Softly, ‘Yes.’ He did not add, _partly_.

‘Beautiful?’

Softer still, almost a whisper, ‘Exquisite.’

‘Then I do not understand!’

Louder now, annoyed, ‘You would not.’

‘John! You met an exquisite British maiden who was unattached. Why did you not bring her back with you? I cannot imagine any woman turning down a proposal of marriage from a man as upstanding as you. You know that no one in Northumberland would begrudge you another chance to be happy!’

‘I could not, Gregory. Please, leave me be!’

‘I will not, dear friend. Tell me her name and I will ask for her hand in marriage to you. I will bring her to you.’

‘You cannot. No one can.’

‘John! I only wish to see you happy, madly happy, perhaps for the first time in your life. Please, tell me why I cannot.’

Gregory’s badgering tore through John’s disavowals. ‘You cannot because- ’, his tone became quiet but his eyes lifted fearlessly to hold Gregory’s. He surrendered with a sighed. ‘Because I met and fell in love with an exquisite British youth who has his whole life ahead of him and had to return to his family.’ John’s lashes slowly swept down, shuttering his eyes from further scrutiny. ‘I found everything I could want but I gave it all up. Then I lost it.’

Gregory was struck dumb for a long moment. In an overdue expression of shock, he whispered, ‘John…’          

‘Now you know my darkest truth, Gregory. I am a _sodomite_ ’, John spat out bitterly. ‘A deviant in the eyes of the very Church in whose army I fought a holy war.’ His eyes blazed. ‘Is that not what you are thinking? Have I fallen enough in your estimation to be left alone now?’

‘John… I, um, I’, Gregory stammered but ignored the venom directed at him in his friend’s admission. ‘How long?’

‘I never touched another man while I was married to your sister. Ever. I was faithful to her.’

‘I did not know this about you’, Gregory said truthfully. ‘I do not know what to say’,

John’s face was set in stone. ‘Then say nothing for there is nothing to say.’

Gregory shook his head, clearing his thoughts. ‘No’, he said, determined. ‘I do have something to say and you will let me speak.’

John turned to face him with a subtle lift of his chin, his innate courage shining through even in this moment of judgment as the condemned facing his executioner.

Gregory saw that and a sad smile appeared on his lips. ‘I love you as a brother, John. You must know that. You are the best man I know. And I cannot sit in judgment on our Lord.’

John blinked, unable to comprehend the non sequitur.

‘If my faith in the Lord is true’, Gregory started but then hesitated as if picking and discarding words, carefully arranging those that remained in his head before he uttered them. ‘If I _truly_ believe that everything on this earth is made by Him and that everything we see, hear, touch and feel is His creation, how can I possibly presume to cleave you from all of His creatures and brand you a sinner for impulses He put in you? What would that say about my faith?’

John’s gaze held gratitude and love for his wise confidante. ‘You truly feel that way?’

‘I truly do, John. I will stand by you until my last breath. Whatever Life throws at you, she throws at me, too.’

‘Gregory, I- I do not feel worthy of your loyalty.’

‘A worthier man I have not known, John. Please, I pray you, share your burdens with me. Tell me about this youth who has plunged you into a special kind of Hell. What is he called?’

John sniffed wistfully. ‘He must remain nameless but I can tell you that he is… arrogant, beautiful, clever. He has a foul temper and a wicked tongue’, he laughed fondly, ‘but when he expressed his affection for me, in his own endearingly angry way, I feared I would crumble.’ John fell silent. _And when he opened himself to me, when he permitted me to hold him and held me in his arms, it felt like I was burning in the sun and drowning in bliss at the same time. There was nothing left of me. I had never known such happiness and now I never will._

Gregory smiled at the blinding joy on his friend’s face but could not overlook the underpinning of grief. ‘He must be exceptional.’

‘Exceptional, extraordinary, unmatched.’

Gregory smiled indulgently. ‘Where did you meet?’

‘In Tiberias. He was journeying alone through Saracen territory, the beautiful, reckless fool. He could have been brutalised or killed. Or both.’ He faltered, as if reliving his time in Acre. ‘We saved each other’, he said softly.

‘Does he feel similarly for you?’

‘He thought he did.’

‘Then I do not understand, John. It is not uncommon for peers to pursue associations with other men.’

‘It is not uncommon to do so as a _distraction_. But I cannot use him as a distraction. He would be the _only_ one in my life, but he has his whole life ahead of him. He is young and has yet to find love and-’

‘John. Perhaps he _had_ found love but you decided for him that he had not.’

‘You are mistaken, Gregory. There are expectations of-’

‘Expectations!’ Gregory held up a hand, exhaling hard. ‘Expectations are placed on us by the King, the Church, our people, all of society, shackling us to a prescribed way of life. If we start shackling ourselves, we doom ourselves to a prison of fear and joylessness. Is that what you wish for yourself? I did not think a Crusader as brave as you on the battlefield would be so faint-hearted in love.’

‘You think me faint-hearted?’

‘Would your young man stand with you?’

‘I believed he would.’

‘Then you are faint-hearted, my brother.’

‘No, you did not hear me. I believ _ed_ he would.’

‘How do you know he will not?’

John shifted his gaze to his garden. The flowers in full bloom. Ten weeks ago, the flowers in Castle Huntingdon were also in full bloom. Ten weeks ago…

>  
> 
> _A fatigued and bleary-eyed John knocked on the large ornate door to Castle Huntingdon. On the other side, he heard the bolt sliding and the door was slowly opened._
> 
> _‘How may I help you, Sir Knight?’ asked the primly attired seneschal who answered John’s knock. He cast a critical eye over John’s disheveled appearance._
> 
> _‘My name is John Watson. I have just returned from Cyprus. My deepest apologies for calling on His Lordship unannounced. Might I tax his kindness and obtain a brief audience with him?’_
> 
> _The seneschal appeared rather discomfited by the stranger standing before him. Unsure of what to do, he tarried at the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other._
> 
> _Presently, the sound of sandals clomping over the stone floor broke the awkward silence and a young but authoritative voice called out, ‘Who is it, Harold?’_
> 
> _The steward stepped back from the door. ‘Master Sherlock’, he said turning to the man who hailed him, ‘Sir John Watson seeks an audience with His Lordship.’_
> 
> _The footsteps that had been approaching the door stopped abruptly. John’s heart pounded in his chest. Like a dying man seeking his last drop of water, he craved one look at that lovely face after which, he told himself, he would leave and never come back._
> 
> _‘I will attend to our guest, Harold’, said the achingly familiar voice. ‘Please arrange for wine and a light repast to be served in the library. I will inform my father of Sir John’s arrival.’_
> 
> _‘As you wish, Master Sherlock’, said the steward. ‘Please come in, Sir Knight.’_
> 
> _John lifted a foot to enter the castle but it thumped heavily to the ground, a leaden weight under him. His hand tightened around the hilt of Invaincu. Before him stood Sherlock, looking lovelier and crosser than he had in Acre, if that were possible. John’s head tilted fondly, helplessly surrendering to the cherished sight of his erstwhile lover, the man he had abandoned in Acre and who was now walking slowly towards him._
> 
> _‘Sherlock…’ he breathed. ‘It is most agreeable to see you again.’_
> 
> _Up close, John’s hope began its slow demise when he saw that the green eyes held no recognition. Sherlock had assumed the perfect, perfunctory expression of greeting. ‘Please come in, Your Grace.’_
> 
> _John was startled by the reference to his dukedom. He had not disclosed his royal status to Sherlock, but of course the curious young man would have learned his true identity._
> 
> _‘If you would follow me, refreshments will be served in the library where my father will join you shortly.’_
> 
> _‘Yes, uh, yes, I thank you. Sherlock… are- are you… unharmed? Did you arrive here safely?’_
> 
> _‘I am safe and unharmed, my lord. Our sudden parting did not afford me a chance to thank you adequately’, he said and a twinge of guilt throbbed through John. ‘You have my gratitude, Your Grace.’_
> 
> _The repeated use of the honorific was unbearably estranging. ‘You used to call me John.’_
> 
> _Now Sherlock acknowledged him and their past, leaning towards him until he was so close that John could feel Sherlock’s breath puff on his unshaven cheeks._
> 
> _‘At the time’, said Sherlock, his voice a low, ominous snarl, ‘I had greatly exaggerated my own consequence to Your Grace. My lord will agree that it would ill behove me to take such liberties again.’_
> 
> _A tousled head peeped out from an adjoining chamber._
> 
> _‘Please give me a moment’, Sherlock said and hurried into the chamber._
> 
> _John could hear him speaking to another man in hushed tones. The mystery man, judging by the sudden spike in the volume and pitch of his voice, was mildly alarmed at something Sherlock had said. Shortly thereafter, Sherlock emerged from the chamber and walked towards the study._
> 
> _‘Please, come’, he called to John over his shoulder._
> 
> _They entered a small but well-appointed library. Four large cushioned armchairs were placed around a centre table. A tall bookshelf stood along one wall, bearing books on a variety of subjects ranging from literature and science to religion. An ornately bound Bible took pride of place in the centre of the bookshelf. A portrait of the Earl and his wife hung on the opposite wall._
> 
> _‘Please have a seat, Your Grace’, said Sherlock, his manner politely distant._
> 
> _John remained standing and Sherlock did not insist that he sit. ‘I shall let my father know that you await him here.’ He had just opened the door when a young man dashed through._
> 
> _The playful youth grasped Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him against a wall. ‘I have been looking for you, my dear boy’, he chuckled._
> 
> _The young man had cupped Sherlock’s cheeks in his hands and lowered his head to Sherlock’s. John’s world narrowed to the point where the back of the boy’s head obscured Sherlock’s face. Then his world splintered. It did not take much imagination to know what they were doing. Sherlock pushed the young man away, laughing nervously. ‘Alan!’ he chastised in a husky whisper. ‘I told you we have a guest! Right behind you, too. This will have to wait, you obsessed fool!’_
> 
> _‘Oh, forgive me!’ said Alan, schooling his features into a counterfeit approximation of a mortified young man. ‘Forgive me, Sir Knight’, he giggled and skipped off on nimble feet, leaving Sherlock to deal with the embarrassment alone._
> 
> _‘That was a most unfortunate indiscretion. Forgive me’, Sherlock said flatly, his gaze showing no remorse at all. In fact, his lips curled in a cold smile. ‘With your leave, I will fetch my father.’ He shut the door behind him._
> 
> _John gaped after his departing form, then down at his hands. He did not sit. The armchairs were pristine. It would be a shame to sully them with the sweat and salt, from four unwashed days on a ship, that covered his skin like a viscous membrane. The events of the past weeks leading up to this moment came crashing through, flooding his thoughts. When his ship dropped anchor in the port of London, he could have ridden Starlight directly to Northumberland but, consumed by a desire to see Sherlock again and ensure his safety, he had ridden to Huntingdon instead. After their brief but telling exchange, he acknowledged with a pang of regret that he, too, had exaggerated his own consequence to Sherlock. But it was a preferable outcome to see Sherlock happy in the company of another young man than the heartbroken boy he had expected to find._
> 
> _The door opened and the Earl of Huntingdon, Sir Ailric, stood there, looking at him. ‘Your Grace!’ gushed the Earl. ‘Why do you still stand? Please, sit. Wine will be served shortly. You are weary. May I offer you a bathe and a chamber to rest? You are welcome to be our guest for as long as it pleases you.’_
> 
> _Still grappling with the realisation that Sherlock was- otherwise engaged, John stuttered, ‘I- uh- I am very grateful for your kindness, Your Lordship, but I cannot stay. I only wanted to be assured that Sherlock had arrived safely.’_
> 
> _‘He did, Your Grace, and I thank you for keeping him safe. He spoke about a brave and kind Hospitaller who saved him from being- killed or worse. Then he told me your name.’_
> 
> _‘It was- ’, John tried to speak but the image of the boy, Alan, kissing Sherlock had a stranglehold on him. He coughed to loosen his throat. ‘Pardon me, I must leave if I am to reach Northumberland by daybreak.’_
> 
> _The Earl gave John a loaded look. ‘Very well, Sir John. I shall not compel you to stay but please know that Castle Huntingdon is always open to you. You gave me back my son. For that my wife and I are forever in your debt.’_
> 
> _‘There is no debt, Sir Ailric. There never was. I shall take your leave now.’_
> 
> _‘Would you like me to summon Sherlock? To say your good-byes?’_
> 
> _‘No, please… that will not be necessary. He has said his good-byes to me.’_
> 
> _‘In that case, I wish you a safe journey home, Your Grace.'_

With a sad shake of his head, John answered Gregory. ‘I know because he made it clear that he does not stand with me. I have been a fool, Gregory’, he laughed but it was a mirthless sound. ‘An old fool, easily forgotten.’ _I did not know that this broken heart was capable of feeling again, feeling this- much for another. Love has brought me nothing but pain._ ‘So you see, dear friend, a life of solitude suits me. I am neither desirous nor, evidently, deserving of much more.’

John squared his shoulders and straightened his back, the subtle physical movements indicating to Gregory that he was once again the fortitudinous Duke of Northumberland, his sorrows relegated to the place deep inside him where he kept his most private remembrances.

Gregory sighed. ‘Then I leave you to your self-imposed privation. When you are ready to live and be happy again, I will be happy with you.’

 


	15. Chapter 15

London. Kenilworth Castle. The magnificent court of the late King Richard the Lionheart was soon to become the court of his brother, Charles of Aquitaine.

John and Gregory were escorted to the majestic, sprawling Great Hall which was a nervous hive of preparation. Servants bustled about, ripping up old floor mats and rolling out newer, plusher carpets of rich reds and dark purples, hues favoured by the future King. Tapestries praising Richard were pulled off and in their place were hung new arrases boasting images of Charles, alacritous creations commissioned since the sad passing of the erstwhile King. When the walls were redecorated, a single memento of the former King remained – a portrait of King Henry standing behind his two teenaged sons, his arms spread, hands clasping their shoulders.

A solicitous servant had just served John and Gregory the finest wine in all of Britain when a sombre gust of wind presaged the arrival of a tall man with an even more sombre mien. John was accorded a grave greeting by Richard’s closest advisor, Lord Mycroft, Earl of Leicester and Lord High Steward of Britain. It was common knowledge amongst the peerage that Richard had unofficially entrusted Mycroft with the care of Britain in his absence, a mandate which included keeping an eye and a restraining hand on Charles and had the automatic consequence of earning Mycroft the disfavour of Charles and his sponsors, Britain’s wealthy.

‘Sir John, I am glad you have arrived early.’ Two deep lines between his eyebrows marked Mycroft’s forehead in a perpetual frown; his severe gaze was devoid of warmth.

‘Sir Mycroft, this is- ’

‘I know who this is. Sir Gregory Lestrade, Earl of Sussex and your brother-in-law. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Sir Gregory.’

‘Sir Mycroft.’

‘Rooms will be arranged for your stay. But first, I need to speak with Sir John in private.’

‘Certainly’, said John. ‘Gregory, I shall come to you after.’

‘There is no hurry’, said Gregory. ‘I should like to speak with Sir Reginald, if I am able determine his whereabouts.’

‘Sir Reginald is in the chapel, conferring with the Archbishop on the upcoming ceremonies.’

‘Thank you, Sir Mycroft’, said Gregory. ‘I shall make my way there.’

John and Mycroft disappeared into an adjoining chamber while Gregory made his way to the chapel.

\-----------------

In the solitude of his chamber, the Lord High Steward permitted a faint expression of welcome to soften his features. Formality was cast aside. ‘John, truly I am glad to see you. How have you been?’

‘As well as any soldier can be. And you, Mycroft?’

‘As you can well imagine, I am- concerned.’

‘What concerns you, my friend?’ asked John. ‘When you are troubled, all of Britain should be afraid.’ The observation carried no humour.

Mycroft sighed. ‘Richard was my closest friend.’

‘And you were his.’

‘I worry that his passing was not from natural causes. You are aware that his constitution was formidable. I have lost count of the terrible wounds he survived that would have killed an ordinary man before his time. Yet he seemed to die too easily and his knights will not reveal the truth of what transpired.’

‘Mycroft-’

‘I fear his knights serve another master’, Mycroft surmised. ‘But I know you were at his side before he passed.’

‘How-?’

‘I have eyes and ears everywhere, John, but none of them is a practitioner of the healing arts. You are. Tell me what you saw’, he urged. ‘Tell me the truth!’

John blew out a breath. ‘Richard was poisoned’, he said, toneless, grim.

‘May the Lord save Britain!’ Mycroft gasped. ‘It is as I suspected.’

John continued his dispassionate reminiscence. ‘I detected at least four poisons. Someone wanted to make absolutely certain that he did not survive this attempt on his life.’

‘I have my suspicions about the identity of his murderer’, said Mycroft, looking directly at John.

John nodded tightly but said nothing.

Mycroft joined his hands in the prayer pose and pressed his fingers to his lips. ‘John… something is amiss. I am deeply concerned for the nation. A disease has taken root in London, an evil that inexorably spreads its devastation outwards. Soon the entire land will be in its clutches.’

Barely concealing his shock at how closely that pronouncement echoed his own assertion to Gregory, John said, ‘You speak in riddles, Mycroft.’

‘Riddles are all I can offer you now, for the future appears murky to me. But it will eventually unravel and then I shall call on you, for I will need people I can trust. People Richard would trust.’

‘You have my unconditional loyalty, Mycroft, just as Richard did. Be careful, my friend. The tides have turned. We stand at the forefront of a new and, I fear, violent domestic era.’

‘Indeed’, Mycroft nodded slowly. ‘London has become leaderless jungle. There will be a fight for supremacy.’

John regarded his solemn friend through narrowed eyes. His loyalty might have become the smallest bit conditional; an indistinct but cautionary notion pulsed at the periphery of his conscious for Mycroft’s words were strangely familiar. Filled with a strong sense of foreboding, he offered a dismal reminder. ‘We shall not be leaderless for long. Tomorrow, we will have a new King.’

‘No’, said Mycroft, shaking his head. ‘I speak not of the Monarchy but the Church. It grows more powerful every day. But not the whole of it. My informants bring disturbing news of a smaller, more militant faction born from within the Order. It has gained followers over the past year.’

‘Do you mean the Order of the Templars? Because it should not be a surprise. They are trained to be militant. They are warriors first and servants of the Church second.’

‘No, no, not the Templars, but a group far more insidious. An autonomous group. I have heard it referred to as the Church of the Shining One. Rumours abound of unspeakable acts they have committed in the name of our Lord. But their affiliates are not known to me just yet. Their masters walk amongst us like faceless ghosts and that worries me for I cannot fight an invisible enemy with any effectiveness.’

‘If anyone can unmask this enemy, it is you, Mycroft.’

‘Yes’, Mycroft owned with a tilt of his head, ‘but I suspect I will need your assistance.’

‘You have but to ask.’

Mycroft blew out a breath. ‘Now we must assume proper expressions of joy and return to the preparations outside before our absence is noted.’

He swept out of his chamber followed by John.

\--------------

The coronation was a brief affair but conducted with all the pomp and circumstance warranted by the occasion.

Prince-regent Charles stood before the large, ornate throne last occupied by his brother, Richard. To his left stood Mycroft, whom Charles had decided to retain in the office of Lord High Steward. To Charles’ right stood Sir Reginald, who would be appointed Lord Great Chamberlain.

The Archbishop called the proceedings to order. When the gathered public had quieted down, he began.

‘Sirs, I here present unto you King Charles, your undoubted King, wherefore all you who are come this day, to do your homage and service. Are you willing to do the same?’

The court erupted with a single cry. ‘God save King Charles!’

The Archbishop turned to Charles. A squire held out the King’s crown on a cushion of red velvet.

‘Is your Majesty willing to take the Oath?’

Charles answered, ‘I am.’

‘Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of Great Britain according to their respective laws and customs?’

Charles answered, ‘I solemnly promise to do so.’

‘Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?’

‘I will.’

‘Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the Laws of God and the true profession of the Gospel? Will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the Church of England, and preserve unto the Bishops and Clergy of England, and to the Churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges, as by law do or shall appertain to them or any of them?’

‘All this I promise to do.’

With great reverence, the Archbishop lifted the crown and placed it on Charles’ head.

‘O God, the Crown of the faithful, bless we beseech thee this Crown, and so sanctify thy servant Charles upon whose head this day thou dost place it for a sign of royal majesty, that he may be filled by thine abundant grace with all princely virtues through the King eternal Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

The courtiers once again took up a cheerful cry. ‘God save the King!’

It was time for the peerage to pledge their loyalty to the new King. Dukes and Earls and Knights filed past the King, individually kneeling before him to state their name and proclaim, ‘Today I swear that I will be faithful and bear allegiance to His Majesty, Charles, King of Britain, His heirs and successors.’

\------------

When the joyous public had dispersed, the newly crowned King Charles retired to his expansive solar situated in the eastern corner of Kenilworth Castle. He instructed Mycroft to summon the peers to attend him.

John had just entered the solar with Gregory when Charles hailed him.

‘John! Dear cousin, how are you? Come, sit with me.’

‘Your Majesty, I am well.’ He remained standing.

‘I understand you visited Castle Huntingdon on your return from Acre. I was not aware that you were acquainted with Sir Ailric.’ The King’s eyes had narrowed like those of a serpent.

A chill ran down John’s spine. His tenor was cold when he said, ‘And I would not have thought that Your Majesty had much respite from the many weightier issues requiring your attention to take interest in the acquaintances of your knights.’

Charles’ expression turned to stone. John’s jaw clenched.

‘Your Majesty’, Gregory interjected, ‘Sir John visited Huntingdon at my request. As you know, Sir Ailric, the late King Richard and I were boyhood friends. Sir John was merely handing over a parcel he was carrying for Sir Ailric from a mutual friend in Acre.’

Charles leaned forward in his chair. ‘A mutual friend?’

‘Your Majesty’, said Mycroft, effectively ending the inquisition, ‘with the utmost respect, we have matters of greater importance to discuss.’

‘Yes, yes, Mycroft’, said Charles, waving an irritated hand. ‘You have always taken your duties too seriously. It is no surprise that Richard liked you.’ He looked from John to Gregory and back. ‘I mentioned Sir Ailric because I received news that he is departed.’

John lifted a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Sir Ailric is dead.’

John and Gregory gasped in unison.

Charles leaned back in his chair, evidently pleased with their reaction. In an apparent change of subject, he continued to speak. ‘A wolf’s-head has run riot over Huntingdon and neighbouring counties. Village folk call him the Hooded Man.’ He sighed heavily and sank deep in his chair. ‘Tell them, Mycroft.’

‘This outlaw, this Robin Hood’, said Mycroft, ‘is the plague of Sherwood Forest.’

John cleared his throat. ‘Sir Mycroft, pardon the interruption, but what bearing does the outlaw have on Sir Ailric’s passing?’

Mycroft turned his cool gaze to John. ‘Robin Hood murdered Sir Ailric and his family.’

‘F-family too?’ John stuttered.

This time, the King answered gleefully. ‘The people of Wickham found the bodies of Sir Ailric, Lady Rowena, their son Sherlock and another young man in Sherwood forest, clothes ripped and bloodied, their chests punctured with arrows, throats cut.’

John’s breaths became deep, long inhales. His body quivered with scarcely restrained emotion. A loud ringing sound filled his ears as the chamber faded into an indistinct picture; words seemed to come from afar and faces turned blurry. Then he was alone in his mind. His eyes dropped to the floor and he stared blindly at the carpets, holding only the memory of Sherlock’s face when they had stood in the study in Castle Huntingdon and he had not known it would be the last time he would lay eyes on that lovely face. His hands trembled. He did not know what he felt. He did not know what to feel.

‘John!’ said a voice through the fog. ‘Are you alright?’

He lifted his head and found himself looking into wide, concerned eyes.

‘Are _you_ , Gregory?’ John snapped at his friend’s alarm. ‘Your boyhood friend was murdered!’

‘No, I am _not_ alright!’ Gregory snarled under his breath. He stood very close to John. ‘How _could_ I be? But you need to compose yourself. Now.’

‘Yes, very well, gentlemen’, said Charles, a heartless smirk on his face. He clapped his hands once. ‘You may mourn Sir Ailric when you have returned to Northumberland and Sussex. For now, we have business to discuss. Mycroft?’

Mycroft took the floor again. ‘The King wishes to take Robin Hood down. To kill him on sight.’ His tone carried no emotion when he made the deadly pronouncement.

‘Because of these murders?’

‘No’, Charles interjected but then caught Mycroft’s glance chastening him for his callous remark. ‘Yes’, he amended, ‘of course, that is one reason. But more importantly, Robin Hood has been rampantly robbing the Royal Treasury. It is quite insulting, actually.’

This time, it was Gregory who spoke. His words carried a sneer. ‘How does this Robin Hood have access to the Royal Treasury? I cannot imagine it is left open and unguarded for him to walk in and out as he pleases.’

‘Are you trying to be funny, Sir Gregory?’ asked an unfamiliar, sarcastic voice. ‘The Treasury is very well guarded, my lord. Do credit us with more intelligence than that.’

Gregory turned to the speaker, a short man with a beard and a crooked smirk. ‘I fear I am at a disadvantage, my lord. You know me, yet I know not how to address you.’

‘I am Sir Robert de Rainault, Sheriff of Nottingham’, said the man in introduction.

‘Sir Robert’, Gregory acknowledged.

‘This, here, is Sir Guy of Gisburne’, said the Sheriff gesturing in the direction of a tall, golden-haired man. ‘He is my aide-de-camp, as it were.’

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Guy’, said Gregory. He turned his attention to Mycroft. ‘If we might return to the matter of Robin Hood?’

‘Indeed. Thoroughfare between London and five other counties necessarily involves passage through Sherwood Forest. For the past few months, Robin Hood and his fellow bandits have terrorised wealthy travellers, robbing them of their money and possessions. Needless to say, bearers of the Saladin Tithe have been among those raided by the fugitive. Heavy bags of coin are hard to conceal even under one’s cape. They tend to be noisy.’

Sir Guy decided to contribute to the discussion. ‘The wolf’s-head attacked Sir Ailric and his family. Sir Ailric must have refused to hand over his possessions. In retaliation, the vicious brigand and his men ended their lives.’

John’s eyes turned to blue ice and his jaw hardened. His hands were clenched into fists. ‘What is known of this Hooded Man?’

‘He is said to be a hulking brute’, said the Sheriff, ‘two metres tall with a beard to match. He prowls around Sherwood Forest with a few other outlaws. They have a minstrel among them who plays on his lyre and breaks into song while they cheerfully rob unsuspecting travellers. “Steal from the rich to give to the poor” is the credo of Robin Hood and his Merry Men.’

‘I can see why that would inspire loyalty from the villages’, Gregory commented.

‘Yes, the villages’, sneered the Sheriff. ‘Wickham and Eastwick are said to be Robin Hood’s strongholds’, said the Sheriff. ‘The village folk there will reveal nothing of his identity or whereabouts. We have even tried torturing them, to no avail’, he said with a casual shrug. ‘They choose death by the sword over betraying Robin Hood. Yes…’, he mused. ‘It is an unusual solidarity they exhibit for the wolf’s-head.’

‘The solidarity of pigs!’ Sir Guy hissed. ‘The serfs should all be killed! Dirty swine that are lower than the mud in which they roll about all day!’

‘Do calm down, Sir Guy’, Charles chuckled. ‘If you had your way, the nobility would have no one left to rule. Mycroft?’

‘These outlaws are intimately familiar with Sherwood, the trees, the rivers, the caves. Our soldiers are sitting ducks as soon as they set foot in that forest.’

‘Is there something particular about this man?’ asked John, ‘something that could be used to entrap him? Every man has a weakness. Pride, shameful predilections, greed. What is his failing?’

‘None of which we are aware.’

‘What is his claim to fame, then, apart from robbing from the rich?’

‘He is said to be the finest longbowman in the entire country.’

John’s eyes narrowed. ‘I believe we can trap Robin Hood.’ He addressed the Sheriff of Nottingham. ‘Sir Robert, Wickham and Eastwick are both in Nottingham county. Announce an archery tournament in Nottingham. The prize should be something lucrative enough to flush this devil out from his dark realm. If his reputation is not a lie, he will win the tournament and we will let him. When he comes to collect his prize, we will take him down.’

‘Excellent idea!’ said Charles. ‘What does Nottingham have to offer as the prize, Robert?’

The Sheriff thought a moment. Then, ‘I have in my possession a unique relic found in Northern Ireland, a three hundred year old arrow made entirely of silver. Legend has it that water in which this talisman has been soaked is imbued with restorative powers strong enough to bring the dying back to life. Of course, that has not been tested’, laughed the Sheriff. ‘Nonetheless, I believe it will fetch at least five thousand pounds in the open market. It is known as the _Mac tíre-fiach Arrow_.’

‘How appropriate’, laughed Charles. ‘The Arrow of the Wolf-hunt to hunt a wolf’s-head. Make it happen, Robert’, he ordered.

‘It shall be done, Your Majesty’, said the Sheriff with a low bow.

‘Good. Now get out, all of you. I tire of your presence.’

\--------

The moment he exited the solar, John plummeted into a painful haze as the realisation of Sherlock’s murder came flooding back. He had just staggered into his appointed chamber when Gregory entered.

‘John!’ the taller man gasped when he saw the haunted look in his friend’s eyes. He remembered the last time John had appeared that devastated. ‘Oh, John!’ he said, rushing to his friend’s side.

John turned his face away. He ran a hand through his hair and grabbed it hard. ‘I need a moment, Gregory’, he bit out. ‘Please, excuse me’, he said and rushed into the bath chamber where he promptly and repeatedly vomited the contents of his stomach into the garderobe. When his heaves turned dry, he collapsed on the floor, pressed his fists to his eyes and wept. He wept as he had for his dead wife and his stillborn son. He wept with bottomless anguish as the abject helplessness he had experienced that fateful day once again swallowed him whole. He threw his head back against the wall and soundlessly howled out his despair while tears flowed down his face.

Gregory stood by the door to the bath chamber. ‘Oh John, please, speak to me! I do not understand why you suffer.’ He knelt beside John and grasped his arm. ‘You can tell me anything, John.’

‘I- I, no, I cannot. Not yet.’ He shook his arm loose but did not push Gregory away. Pulling up his knees, he dropped his head between them. ‘I do not wish you to see me like this.’

‘I have seen you like this before. But right now, I must make a selfish request of you, for I find myself desperately in need of a friend.’

Still distraught, John compelled himself to face his friend. He faced Gregory and was shocked by the anguish he saw in his friend’s eyes. Gregory helped him to his feet. John washed out his mouth with water and together they returned to the bed chamber where Gregory slumped into the armchair by the wall and dropped his head in his hands.

‘I am here, Gregory.’

‘There is much you do not know about me.’

‘That became apparent today.’

‘Richard, Ailric and I shared a bond that went beyond blood; we were… closer than brothers from the time we were boys, when Ailric and I were students with Richard right here, in Kenilworth Castle. None of us did anything without the other two. It was only when we went to fight in the Holy Land that we were separated. And now, within a week, I have received news that two of my closest friends have been murdered!’

‘Gregory…’

‘I feel helpless. My blood boils with rage, yet I am powerless to bring them back! I want to find Richard’s murderer. I want to find this Robin Hood and kill them both with my bare hands. I-’ he stopped.

Wet lashes lifted to meet John’s gaze. ‘Forgive me, Gregory. I thought only of myself. I did not know of your friendships… I did not know of your bond with Richard…we have both suffered terrible losses.’

Gregory dropped his head, consumed by grief. John stood by the window, staring blankly at the rolling grasslands in the distance, beyond the castle grounds. The two men suffered quietly in their own personal Hells. It was a long time before Gregory broke the stillness.

‘John…, why does Ailric’s passing aggrieve you so?’

‘I- I called on Sir Ailric… and his son on my way home.’

The tranquil air turned agitated as they stared at each other, exchanging undeclared words. Then Gregory’s eyes widened in realisation. His eyebrows lifted in a question. John nodded slowly. His eyes welled because his heart ached as if it had again shattered into a million small pieces.

‘Oh, John, John, I am so sorry!’ He immediately rose and walked up to John. But he did not touch him. Instead, he stood close to him, a solid rock of support, while John’s shoulders shook with despair.

‘We will bring this Robin Hood down. Justice will be served. You and I will ensure it.’

John let out a shuddering breath and wiped his eyes, blinking away the tears he would shed when he was alone. Squaring his shoulders, he straightened his back. ‘We will _destroy_ him.’


	16. Chapter 16

‘I shall sample your best ale, my man!’ said the nobleman to the barkeep. He was seated on a tall barstool in Wickham’s cleanest and most popular drinking establishment, the Long and the Cross, the inspiration behind the name, and the owner’s loyalties, explained by illustrations of a longbow and crossbow on the door. The nobleman was bored.

While he waited to be served, he enjoyed an eyeful of the comely and buxom barmaid who seemed not to mind the attentions of the virile aristocrat with deep blue eyes and locks of gold, interspersed with charming strands of silver, that reached down to his shoulders. The edge of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smirk; his eyes flicked down to the shadowed dip between her plump breasts, lingering there, and then up to her lips. She flushed a deep red and bit her lower lip. He was still lost in her rustic allure when the stool next to him rattled. A shabbily dressed young man, not yet twenty years old, had poured himself onto the stool. His long body drooped over the counter and his head dropped heavily onto his arm, shoulders and back rising and falling with his heaving breaths, as if he had sprinted a mile.

The nobleman unconsciously drew back from his neighbour. ‘Are you quite well, young man?’ he asked the stranger, wrinkling his nose. ‘Your… scent is rather ripe’, he observed unthinkingly.

The youth lifted his head to shoot daggers at the nobleman with his green eyes. Dirt stained his pale cheeks. His hair was clumped and in desperate need of a good wash. Shoots of hay stuck out from his dark curls. ‘Pardon me, my lord’, he snarled. ‘I shall distance my filth from your august presence.’

‘No, no, that will not be necessary. I merely commented on the fact of your odious… odour’, the nobleman chuckled.

The boy’s face fell at the cruel comment and he started to drag himself off the stool. The nobleman immediately regretted his callous words.

‘Please, I am not usually this unsympathetic’, he said, forcing contrition into his voice. ‘Stay here. Catch your breath. Let me quench your thirst. Barkeep! This fine gentleman will drink what I am drinking.’

Two tall wooden mugs were placed before the nobleman and his indigent companion. It might as well have been the first touch of liquid to the young man’s dry lips after an extended drought for he gulped down his drink, throat jumping, without pausing to catch a breath. Placing the mug on the counter with a soft thump, he let out a satiated belch and crudely ran the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away the froth that lined the youthful skin above his upper lip like a premature moustache of white. Then he wiped his wet hand on his dirty tunic.

The nobleman smirked in scarcely veiled disgust.

‘I thank you, my lord.’ He paused for a hiccough. ‘You are most kind.’

‘Not kind, just rich. You seem harried, as if the devil were on your trail. What troubles you so?’

‘I should not want to burden you with my woes, my lord. It is kindness enough that you have slaked my thirst.’

The nobleman held up a hand. ‘Think nothing of it. My time hangs heavy and you have a tale to tell. So, what ails you?’

‘It- it is my sister, my lord. She- uh, she… is with child.’

‘I have been reliably informed that that is cause for celebration. Yet you seem far from overjoyed by the prospect of a niece or nephew.’

‘I would be, my lord, if the father were known. Or, I should say, he is known but will not make an honest woman of her.’

The nobleman leaned forward, interested now in this scandalous tale of woe. ‘Who is this dastard who will not own up to his actions?’

‘I cannot say, my lord, for he is a peer and has threatened to kill us all – me, my sister with her unborn child, our aged parents – if I should so much as breathe a word of his identity to anyone. Yet my tongue is loosened by this fine ale’, he added and threw the nobleman a hopeful look.

The older man smiled at the impish rogue. ‘Does your father know how much you enjoy a taste of the spirits?’

The youth grinned, showing white teeth that were incompatible with the rest of his unkempt appearance. ‘My father wisely chooses to be in the dark about certain things.’

‘Wise, indeed!’ said the aristocrat, smiling. ‘Another drink for my friend!’ he called out to the barkeep. Then, to his companion, ‘Young maidens are known to be unfettered. Did your sister give freely of her charms?’

‘My lord! You impugn my sister’s virtue! No, sir, she is innocent and sweet, a fresh flower of just fifteen summers. The evil nobleman lured her to his castle with promises of beautiful clothes and sumptuous food. As you can tell, we do not have much to call our own and my unsuspecting sister was taken in by this evil lord who then… had his way with her and cast her out.’

‘That is a shame’, said the nobleman, not particularly moved by the other man’s sad tale. He took another sip of his ale. ‘What will you do?’

‘I see no alternative but to return to my village, my lord.’

‘What? And leave your sister in the clutches of this villain? You are a bigger dastard than he!’

‘What choice do I have, my lord? I am penniless and a long way from home.’

‘Where is home?’

‘Falcon’s Crest village, my lord.’

‘Falcon’s Crest! Wickham truly is a long way off. Why did you come here? Is Wickham home to the evil lord?’

‘No, my lord, I came here for assistance but despair of receiving it. My saviour is a hard man to locate.’ The young man stared dolefully at the bottom of his empty goblet.

The nobleman rolled his eyes. ‘Another drink for my friend!’ he said to the barmaid who refilled the young man’s mug. ‘That is the last drink you get with my coin, young man. I shall not be answerable to your father.’

The boy smiled up at the nobleman.

‘Now, who is this man you seek?’

‘I dare not speak his name.’

‘Come now, it cannot be a bigger secret than your sister’s predicament which you divulged with very little persuasion.’

The green eyes lifted to look at his benefactor and with exaggerated solemnity, the young man said, ‘Robin Hood, my lord.’

The nobleman guffawed. ‘The wolf’s-head? He is a murderer who probably will take your sister for his own enjoyment!’

From behind the counter, the pretty barmaid offered a forceful rebuttal. ‘You are wrong, sir! Robin Hood is a protector. He protects the weak from their oppressors.’

The nobleman gave a dismissive snort. ‘I have it on good authority that he is a murderer most foul. He killed the Earl of Huntingdon and his family and dumped their bodies in Sherwood Forest.’

‘No, he did not’, snapped the buxom girl. ‘My lord’, she added as an insincere afterthought.

The nobleman’s head jerked up in her direction. ‘You sound very certain, my dear girl.’

‘Because I am. Robin Hood did not do it!’ she repeated. ‘Robin Hood is not a murderer.’

‘Mildred’, growled the barkeep, ‘that is enough out of you. Get back in the kitchen with your mother!’

‘No, please’, urged the nobleman. ‘Let her speak!’ he said.

But the girl obeyed her father and the aristocrat sighed as she withdrew into the kitchen. His inward lament at the loss of both her fiery contentions and pleasing form was interrupted when the barkeep stepped into view.

‘When she speaks, my lord, we get into trouble.’

‘Tell me, Mister…?’

‘Wilfred de Bracy, my lord’, the barkeep introduced himself.

‘Mister de Bracy…’

‘Wilfred is how I am known in these parts, my lord.’

The nobleman blew out an exasperated breath. ‘Fine, Wilfred. Tell me about this Robin Hood.’

‘What would the point be, my lord?’

‘The point, Wilfred, is that I want your view on the outlaw.’

‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but men of your station and mine maintain very different views on Robin Hood.’

‘My station has never impaired my rationality. If what you say is the truth, I wish to know it.’

‘That is a lofty statement, my lord, but I am a simple man. I know what happened and it does not agree in the slightest with what you have been told.’

‘Are you saying that Robin Hood did not murder the Earl of Huntingdon and his family? That their bodies were not discovered in Sherwood by the people of Wickham, punctured with arrows, their throats cut? Tell me that is not the truth.’

‘That is the tale, my lord. Might I ask where you heard it?’

‘At the coronation of King Charles.’

‘The coronation’, Wilfred sniffed derisively. ‘The passing of the torch. The heart is bested by the head.’

Behind them, an inebriated patron laughed aloud. The nobleman and his young companion turned around and saw a man was holding up an arm, fingers clasped around an imaginary torch in an exaggerated gesture of leadership.

The intoxicated man cleared his throat grandly and feigned a clipped accent like that of the upper class. ‘Guiding us forth, rousing the nation to acts of greatness’, he slurred, his enunciation deteriorating to an almost unintelligible garble, ‘is the call of the King, a vulpine yelp where there once was a leonine roar.’

The entire tavern dissolved into roistering, disdainful laughter.

The nobleman blinked. The drunk’s words had revived a distant memory that was still too nebulous at the moment. He would have to think on it later. Now he focused his attention on Wilfred. He wished to learn more about Robin Hood. ‘If that is the tale, what is the truth?’

‘The Earl and his wife were murdered, my lord.’

The nobleman shifted on his stool and leaned against the counter. ‘So far we are in agreement.’

‘But it was not Robin Hood that killed them.’

‘Are you saying the King’s men lied?’

‘I would never _say_ that, sir. I am not a fool.’

The nobleman exchanged a look with his dishevelled companion whose eyes were wide with interest.

‘Wilfred, I seek the truth, even if it gives the lie to the King’s word. You seem to know what actually happened. Tell me.’

‘My lord-’, Wilfred hesitated.

‘You may speak plainly with me.’

‘If you insist, sir. Should I expect the King’s soldiers to break my door down tomorrow and have me hanged for speaking with you?’

‘You have my word that nothing you say to me will be carried beyond this tavern.’

‘What are you called, my lord?’

‘Your courage strays dangerously close to impertinence, Wilfred.’

‘Trust is the fragile thread that unites the good people of Wickham, my lord, and I do not trust you. However, my query is born of neither courage nor impertinence. I only ask because… if I am eventually hanged for this, I should like to know whom to curse with my last breath.’

The nobleman let out a belly laugh at that. ‘You are a good man, Wilfred. I am Sir Augustine, Earl of Kent.’ He held out a hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Wilfred took it.

‘Very well, Sir Augustine. I shall tell you what I saw.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

Sir Augustine and his scruffy companion leaned forward across the counter.

‘Over two moons ago, I was awakened in the dead of night by the barking of dogs. Howling, actually, as if they were witnessing a horrifying scene. When I opened my door, I beheld the reason for their baying – several of the King’s soldiers were dragging bodies into an abandoned barn. They flung flaming torches at the barn to set it on fire and when the flames rose high, rode away. I shouted after them and the commotion roused my wife and daughter and our neighbours.

'We desperately drew water from the well and threw it at the flames to douse the inferno. When it was put out, we rushed into the charred shed and found two bodies on the ground. A man and a woman. Wealthy, from the looks of their robes. The fire had been put out before it could reach the bodies. They were not burned but they were already dead. Stabbed repeatedly and their throats cut.’

‘No arrows sticking out?’ asked Sir Augustine.

‘Arrows? No! Only knife wounds.’

‘Those wounds could have resulted from arrows’, the boy speculated.

‘Arrows pierce, my boy. They do not cut long gashes into the body.’

‘You are a man of logic, Wilfred’, smiled Sir Augustine. ‘But are you certain there were only two bodies?’

‘As certain as I am that I address exactly two men right now.’

‘What happened to the bodies?’

‘We pulled them out and laid them inside the church overnight as we could not agree what to do with them. We covered them, of course. The dead deserve respect. But the following morning, the bodies were gone. No one had seen or heard anything!’

A muscle jumped in the nobleman’s jaw. ‘Soldiers… So Robin Hood did not do this.’

‘No, my lord. And there is another reason he could not have done this. A reason the King’s men have chosen to overlook in their retelling of this ghastly incident.’

‘What is that?’

‘Until two moons ago, no one had heard of Robin Hood. It is as though he did not exist.’

‘Yet a lot is known about this ghost who only recently started his haunting.’

‘A lot is _said_ about him, my lord. The legends are many. He is said to be a giant of a man with a long beard. Built like a tree. Just a local boy whose family was killed by Charles when he was the Prince-regent. Grew up in Locksley, on the outskirts of the forest, and from a young age, spent his days playing among its trees, by its rivers and hiding in its caves.’

There was an interval of silence and then the young man asked, ‘How true is all this?’

‘As true as any legend, my boy. But at the core of every fable is a kernel of truth. And these tales about Robin Hood serve to make the myth bigger than the man.’

Sir Augustine had been thoughtfully nursing his ale, going over Wilfred’s words, when he suddenly stopped and gasped. His ale went down the wrong pipe. He choked and doubled over coughing.

‘Are you alright, sir?’ asked his shabby companion.

Still coughing, the aristocrat slammed his fist on the counter. ‘Yes. Yes, I am alright’, he snapped.

The boy cleared his throat and pushed a thick fringe off his forehead. ‘Have you ever seen the Hooded Man, Mister de Bracy sir?’ he asked the barkeep.

‘I have seen several hooded men appear from and disappear into the mists of Sherwood. But I could not tell you who among them was Robin Hood.’

‘How might I find him then?’

Wilfred laughed. ‘You will not find Robin Hood, lad. He will find you.’

The young man expressed his annoyance with a low growl. ‘Very well, how do I make myself found?’

The barkeep’s gaze lingered on the nobleman who was staring down at his ale, deep in contemplation. Then he looked over at the boy and grinned. ‘Take Sir Augustine with you.’

‘What!’ rasped the aristocrat, jerking up his head.

‘My lord, the smell of your coin will, I am certain, bring the Hooded Man out from hiding. Then perhaps you might separate hearsay from the truth and confront him directly about the events of that night.’

The nobleman fixed Wilfred with a piercing look and then turned to the young man who was watching him with wide, hopeful eyes. ‘Well, my young friend’, he smiled coldly at his companion. ‘I am willing to help you if you want.’

‘Yes, my lord’, the ill-groomed youth beamed at him. ‘I would be most grateful if you would accompany me into Sherwood Forest.’

‘Considering I had planned two days of leisure in London, I shall. This seems a far more engaging use of my time.’ He nodded at the young man and turned to the barkeep. ‘Wilfred, you are a kind and good man. Here’, he said, placing a heavy pouch on the counter. ‘You may have all the coin I carry on my person. A hundred, I wager. The smell of my robes should prove sufficiently enticing for the outlaw.’

Wilfred lifted the pouch and assessed its weight it in his palm. He dropped it back on the counter. ‘This is excessive, my lord.’

‘No, it is not. You have been most informative. My young friend and I thank you for your time.’

‘Thank _you_ , my lord. I shall keep this coin on hand should the soldiers come knocking tomorrow’, he said with a bitter laugh. ‘I might need to buy my freedom with it.’

‘I gave you my word, Wilfred. Nothing we exchanged will go beyond me. I do not blindly follow the King.’

Wilfred studied Sir Augustine for a moment. His eyes dropped to the mark of the Agnus Dei on the nobleman’s wrist. ‘You are a Templar, my lord.’

‘Indeed’, smiled Sir Augustine. ‘I fought in the Crusades with King Richard.’

‘I imagine, then, that your loyalties lay with the late King.’ The nobleman let his comment slide but Wilfred seem convinced, for he said, ‘I do believe you will not betray my confidence, my lord.’

‘Good. I would ask the same discretion of you.’

‘You have my word, sir.’

‘Then we shall take your leave, my good man. Friend?’ he turned to the shabby youth. ‘It is time to meet Robin Hood and rescue your whimsical sister.’

The boy beamed up at the nobleman who pushed off his stool and exited the tavern. The hopeful boy shuffled out behind him in his threadbare clothes.

\-----------

When they were a fair distance from the tavern, the boy began to shrug off his dirty robes, revealing the snugly-fitted clothes of a young man of means. He ran his hands through his hair repeatedly, shaking out the sticks of hay poking through his curls, and rubbed a silk handkerchief over his cheeks to clean his skin of the charcoal he had smeared in patches on his face. Restored to his original, prosperous appearance, he turned to the nobleman.

‘Welcome back, Theo’, John laughed.

‘Uncle!’ Theo groused, sniffing his underarms. ‘I do not smell ripe!’

‘I had to make it convincing, my dear boy!’ said John in mock seriousness.

‘Oh it was extremely convincing, Sir _Augustine_!’ he mimicked John, his tongue loosened by his three drinks. ‘Why would you speak that way about my sister’s morals?’ he said, sounding quite offended.

John’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Because you defend a sister you do not have, Theo’, he laughed. An ineffable lightness suffused his heart. The sun appeared to be shining brighter, the skies clearer, the air fresher. He could not stop a broad grin from spreading warmly over his face.

Meanwhile, Theo scowled. ‘I do not know what it is that makes you so happy, Uncle.’

‘Hope’, John whispered.

They fell back into silence, lost to their own contemplations. A single prayer pervaded John’s mind, throbbing like an insistent heartbeat. _Do not be dead_ _. Please, you cannot be dead. I know you are alive. I am coming to you._ Village folk walked past them but turned around to continue staring at this most unlikely pair of wealthy visitors to Wickham. John had arranged his features into the apathetic hauteur befitting a peer, carefully masking his fragile optimism for fear it would be revealed to be just a foolish fancy.

‘Theo’, he said, ‘your father is in mourning for his two boyhood friends. Although Robin Hood might not be responsible for the deaths of Sir Ailric and his wife, I would not want to burden your father with details of this trivial encounter.’

Theo studied John’s face. After a moment he said, ‘Very well, Uncle. If that is what you wish, I shall not speak of this to Father. But… what will you do now?’

John stared into the distance for a moment before he came back to himself. ‘Nothing’, he said, ruffling Theo’s hair, ‘about which a young lad need concern himself.’ He looked over at Theo. ‘Especially one with a wayward sister.’

Theo grinned at him and John smiled back. They traversed a verdant knoll and disappeared into a small grove at its base, where Starlight and Theo’s horse were tethered to a tree. Theo’s alcohol-induced excited chatter continued over the remainder of their ride back to London.


	17. Chapter 17

Upon arriving at Kenilworth Castle, John accompanied Theo to the chamber he shared with his father.

‘Gregory’, he said, ‘would you come with me now, to my quarters?’

‘Certainly. Did you and Theo have an enjoyable afternoon?’

‘Father, it was-’, Theo started to effuse about their adventures in disguise but caught John’s warning glance and immediately checked himself. ‘It was rather enjoyable.’

Gregory laughed and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘I am glad to hear it. Although’, he sniffed the air around Theo, ‘you might wish to bathe, son. You appear to have spent the afternoon in a pigsty.’

Theo shared a loaded look with John and then they both chuckled.

Gregory watched John and Theo bond over their mutual secret that they would not share with him and his heart flooded with warmth. ‘Silly boy. I shall return after speaking with your Uncle.’

Gregory and John walked over to the latter’s chamber.

When the door was shut, John addressed his brother-in-law. ‘Gregory, I must ask a favour of you.’

‘Anything, John.’

‘I would like you to go back to Sussex.’

‘It _was_ my intention to return to Sussex, but after we have captured Robin Hood.’

‘You must return at the earliest.’

Gregory’s brows rose slowly. ‘Why?’

‘I expect to be sending guests your way shortly. I would like you to be there when they arrive. I… need you there.’

‘How can you think of entertaining guests when we should be thinking of capturing Robin Hood? I would have thought you would want that above _everything_ else!’

‘There is nothing I want more. But please, will you do as I say? Ride through Devon to avoid Sherwood. It will take you longer but you should reach before the guests and I need you there when they arrive. I will follow.’

‘John… you are keeping something from me. Again.’

‘You are needlessly concerned.’

‘Am I? What are you truly planning?’

John started to speak but Gregory held up his hand. ‘No, John. Do not insult me by denying that.’

‘I will not deny it, but I cannot say more.’

‘Why not?’ Gregory demanded.

‘Because you will want to come with me and I cannot allow that!’

‘John-’

‘I have a suspicion that I must investigate but I cannot allow anyone else to come to harm because of it.’

‘What is this suspicion that you expect harm to befall you?’

‘I cannot tell you – ’

‘Cannot, cannot, cannot!’ Gregory shouted. ‘Is there anything you _can_ do?’ He paced the floor, angry with John, angry with himself that John did not trust him.

But John was as calm as Gregory was agitated. ‘I can tell you that it is a very strong feeling and I must look into it. But if I am wrong and I am killed, Northumberland becomes yours. I need you to be safe. For Theo. For the people of Northumberland.’

‘And is your safety of no consequence, John?’

‘One benefit of having no one to mourn me is that I can afford to take risks others cannot.’

Gregory blew out a resigned breath. His anger had yielded to deep hurt. ‘I stand before you’, he bit out, ‘flesh and blood, yet you do not see me.’ He glowered at John. ‘What is this terrible sadness in you that prevents you from leaning on those who love you?’

The depth of Gregory’s affection and his dejection could not be ignored for it shone in his eyes. John hated himself in that moment, for having unintentionally hurt his friend.

‘Gregory- pardon me, dear friend. I am not myself’, John pleaded with him. ‘You have stood by me through so much. Stand by me one more time. One _last_ time. I swear I will never keep you in the dark again. Never.’

They stared at each other for a long while and Gregory’s pain was slowly assuaged by the genuine remorse he sensed in John. He shook his head, succumbing. ‘You take undue advantage of my kindness.’

John smiled. ‘Only because you allow it.’

Gregory smiled back. ‘I only allow it because you are more than a brother to me.’

‘And you to me’, John replied.

‘Very well, John, I shall return to Sussex on the morrow and prepare to receive your _guests_. How shall I know that you have sent them?’

‘They will ask for the Gray Wolf of Northumberland.’

‘Very droll’, said Gregory, but he was not amused.

‘I thought so, yes’, John said with a grave smile that quickly faded as he contemplated the days to come.

\----------

The rooster had not yet crowed the following morning when John rose from his bed. Kenilworth Castle was still asleep. He bathed quietly in the clean but cold water in the tub, for he did not want to rouse the servants and alert them to his covert activities. Later, when he had dried himself, he donned the rich, velvet robes of a Duke, but chose not to wear his velvet cap. Then he pulled on his knee-high boots and laced them up to the top. His belt was drawn tight around his lean waist, and the reassuring heft of _Invaincu_ in the scabbard pulled on the leather band. As a final preparation, he strung a small silk purse from the belt, heavy with coin. The ensemble should be enough to pique the interest of any outlaw.

Thus attired, he carefully opened his door, cringing when it creaked a little, and tiptoed out of his room. Kenilworth Castle was still asleep when he reached the large front door and pulled it open just enough to be able to slip through the gap. He had to blink a few times to adjust his vision to the darkness. As soon as he could discern his path, he headed for the stables. Starlight started nodding and nickering in her stall when she sensed his approach. Then she saw him and stomped in excitement at the unscheduled visit from her master. John deftly untied her reins and stroked her lovely forehead, murmuring in her ear to quiet her agitation. When she had calmed, he swung up onto his saddle and moments later, master and steed were as a shadowed streak piercing the misty dawn, flying over the grassy plateaus as they raced towards Sherwood Forest. He threw a look over his shoulder. Behind him, Kenilworth Castle grew smaller and smaller.

\----------

Starlight kept up the pace until a gigantic expanse of dark green appeared in the distance. John tugged lightly on her reins and nudged her sides once with his heels. Starlight immediately slowed her gallop to a fast trot. Sherwood Forest loomed before them and John’s heart took up a rapid beat. They paused at the periphery. Then they crossed the Rubicon and entered the dense wood, the haunt of the fabled Hooded Man.

Starlight trotted forward cautiously while John looked around for signs of human occupation.

The labyrinth of tall trees enveloping them in ghostly stillness was made all the more eerie by the symphonic sounds of the wild. The swooping cries of wild birds rolled melodically over the percussive flapping of their wings. He heard the croaking of frogs in distant ponds. Insects buzzed around in the leaves while reptiles skittered over dry leaves. His skin prickled when he felt an intense gaze upon him and snapped his head in the direction of the onlooker. It was no man but an owl, training its large round eyes on him with all the unblinking alertness he warranted as a human interloper in this animal kingdom.

It must have been an hour before a pleasing gurgle and a wet breeze told him there was a brook in the vicinity. He tugged on Starlight’s reins and pointed her in that direction. Through a small clearing in the overhead leafy canopy, the rays of the morning sun streamed down and illuminated the path before them. Starlight quickened her pace, slowing only when they espied a wide stream carving a meandering path through the thick woods.

A narrow trellis bridge, just an open wooden footpath with no hand rails, arched over the rivulet, held up by thick logs rammed hard into the riverbed. An old tunic lay discarded by the bank closest to him. A few arrows also lay scattered in the wet grass. Robin Hood! John’s heart started to race inside him. He slipped off Starlight and led her by her harness towards the bridge. No sooner had he set a foot on the first plank than a figure slipped down from a tree at the opposite bank. The man was large, at least a foot taller than John and much broader. John’s breathing accelerated but still he took another step forward. The bridge was only wide enough to allow traversal in a single file. If two people were walking in opposite directions, one would have to wait for the other to pass.

‘Halt!’ the man called out in a booming voice, running on unexpectedly nimble feet onto the bridge and stopping in the middle. He held up a wooden staff. ‘You must pay the toll before you can be allowed to pass.’

It was not the voice he was expecting. Quelling his disappointment, John drawled, ‘I have heard of you. Wolf’s-head.’

‘Then you are a very brave man, my lord, to venture in these parts with no protection but your sword and your steed.’

‘I do not need protection.’

‘Ah, you are also a fool!’ the man laughed.

‘Not if I was specifically seeking Robin Hood.’

‘Then you must have come prepared to pay my toll. A wealthy man such as you will survive the lightening of his belt’, said the man, eyeing the heavy pouch hanging from John’s belt.

John followed his gaze downward to the pouch and then looked back up. ‘Let me pass. You are not the man I seek.’

‘You said you sought Robin Hood.’

‘I do, but you are not he.’

‘You appear very confident, my lord, that I am not Robin Hood’, the man laughed loudly, scaring a few birds out of their perches in neighbouring trees.

‘You are just a man in a hood’, John said, pulling the hood of his cape over his head, ‘as I now am.’ He waited a moment and then pushed it back down. ‘Let me pass. I am constrained for time.’

‘I cannot do that, my lord. I must collect the toll.’

‘You may have all my coin if you take me to Robin Hood.’

‘I cannot do that. Actually… I could, but I will not.’

John’s patience was running thin. ‘Then I will not part with my money. I am willing, however, to fight you for passage across the bridge.’

The man grinned with genuine amusement. ‘My lord’, he said, ‘you are quite different from your wealthy brethren. In this much time, they would be scurrying back to their mansions in nothing but their underclothes. Yet you, who appear to be a Duke, or at least an Earl, see fit to challenge a man twice your size to a duel.’

‘Are you afraid?’ John sneered.

The man guffawed. ‘Very well, my lord, I accept! What weapons do you favour?’

‘No swords’, said John. ‘I do not wish to draw blood.’

‘You assume that you will get close enough to me to wound me? Ha. All right. We shall fight with wooden staffs. If I fall in the water first, you may pass through Sherwood with all your possessions. If, however, you fall in first, you forfeit your robes, your money and your magnificent steed. Are we agreed?’

‘We are agreed’, said John.

He tethered Starlight to a tree by her reins and returned to the bridge. The hooded man must have had company for he had somehow procured another staff when John’s back was turned. He tossed it lightly across the space between them and John deftly caught it.

‘Come, my lord. Let us dance.’

John shook his shoulders loose and rolled his head to stretch the muscles of his neck. Then he hunched forward and, without warning, ran forward towards his challenger, holding the staff out in front of him. As soon as he was within striking distance, John stabbed his staff forward. The taller man was not expecting this. His exposed middle received the brunt of the force of John’s staff slamming into his ribs. He tripped over his own feet and took a few faltering steps back. John straightened and grinned, the thrill of the fight coursing through him. In the shadows under the hood, he thought he saw the man grimace. Suddenly he was beset on all sides by the other man’s staff that moved lightning fast and aiming blows at John’s unprotected body. John scrambled to regain his balance but his boot was caught in a gap between the strips of wood beneath him and he fell on his knees.

The larger man advanced on him, holding out his staff to deliver the final blow. But what he had thought was John’s misstep and his advantage was actually a feint because, as soon as he was close enough, John whipped up his staff, thrust it into the gap between the man’s ankles and knocked the foot closest to the edge. With a cry that carried more surprise than pain, the larger man toppled over into the river, crashing through the surface flat on his front and sending up a frothy spray high into the air. John leapt to his feet, grinning down at the brute who was thrashing his way to the surface like an ungainly and very annoyed sea monster.

‘Bastard!’ the man cursed.

His hood had swept off his head and revealed a bearded man, exactly like the legends said. The man slapped the water repeatedly, outraged by his summary dismissal by a man so much smaller than he.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘You are no mere Duke. You fight like a warrior.’

‘Crusader’, John owned with a tilt of his head. ‘I trust I have your permission to pass now?’ he sneered and started to walk back to Starlight.

‘Not yet’, returned the man in the water. ‘My friends would like to assay you, too.’ He whistled, a shrill sound in the still-quiet forest.

Two more hooded figures slipped down from the same tree in which this man had hidden. They were both smaller than the first man. John sighed and walked back onto the bridge. They unfairly attacked him as a pair but it took even less effort and time to dispatch them both into the water. These men were clearly not accustomed to fighting.

Three bobbing heads now admired him as he stood on the bridge, legs apart and hands on his hips, a victor surveying his conquests. Those faces then started to grin and John was confused. Their eyes turned in unison to their side of the bridge and John’s followed, intrigued.

A lone figure stood under the tree, face shrouded by a hood, arms bent at the elbows, clasping a longbow in one hand and a staff in the other. A strap ran diagonally across the man’s torso, holding a quiver to his back. This man was slender, taller than John. And familiar.

A chill crept up John’s spine. He dared not speak the name that he yearned to cry out. Not yet. The hooded man dropped his bow to the grass and pulled off his quiver. He ran on light feet onto the bridge and came to an abrupt halt. As John watched, the man’s body gracefully loosened. Using both hands, he rapidly spun his staff before him in a circle. John was hypnotised by the whizzing sound and the illusory spoked wheel conjured up by the swift twirling motion. The man was watching him quietly, his head tilted just a little, and John stared back at him, or into the darkness that lay below the hood. Hope fluttered like a small flightless bird imprisoned in the cage of his soul. He dared not give his hope wings. Not yet.

The man planted his feet wide on the planks of wood, one foot in front of the other, forward leg bent, back leg locked tight at the knee. He grasped the staff with both hands, shoulder width apart, and pointed it at John. The perfect attack stance. John’s eyes raked a desperate line from the man’s boots over his calves and the gentle swell of his tensed thighs. The narrow waist was accentuated by a leather belt pulled tight across it but the tunic flared upwards to take the shape of the broad back and shoulders.

John’s reveries were rudely interrupted by a sharp wallop to his shoulder. He jumped back and held up his own staff. What followed was a surreal interlude of detached observation – as if he were outside his own body, John watched himself exchange blows with this enigmatic hooded man. Thrusting and parrying, as they would have with swords, striking and blocking with nimble, almost synchronised, footwork that was as graceful as a dance between lovers. John’s breath was stolen by the fluid movements of the long body before him. His opponent and he were perfectly matched, for their duel carried on longer than the others. Just when it seemed that John was gaining on his rival, the latter skipped back a few steps and came to a stop, holding still as a statue and looking right at John.

As though commanded by the other man, John’s staff came down and his arms hung limply at his sides. The taller man slowly lifted a hand to his head and pushed his hood back.

John’s world narrowed to the face revealed to him. Euphoria like he had not imagined was possible crashed through him, leaving overjoyed destruction in its wake. The staff fell from his loose fingers and clattered onto the bridge. His challenger took a few slow steps forward and extended his staff to lightly push on John’s shoulder. John’s lax muscles lacked the vigour to withstand the pressure and he fell into the water, his eyes closing and breath catching in his throat as he sank into the murky depths of the river.

The weak current slowly drew John’s stunned, unresisting body away from the bridge, further along the coursing waters where the riverbed sloped downwards and became deeper. Lower and lower he sank. He hovered in the darkness that lapped wetly around his body, not knowing or caring how much time had passed since he had last drawn breath, for he had beheld the cherished face he had despaired of ever seeing again.

At the sound of another splash, his lashes parted and he blinked against the sudden stinging in his eyes. A figure swam towards him with urgency, dark hair floating in sinuous waves around the lovely face, tight with fear. _Fear for John? Could it be?_ A beatific smile spread over John’s face as he hung still in the water, awaiting his rescuer who glided in his direction but stopped a few feet in front of him.

Their unblinking gazes met across the aquatic veil, dark hair and golden locks languidly waving behind them on the gently rippling undercurrent like the pennants of opposing armies. A large hand came up and pushed through the liquid resistance to reach for John. A tear trickled unseen down John’s face and mingled with the river. At the shock of the first gossamer touch of long fingers on his cheeks, John’s lips parted and he gasped but there was no air, only water. And it flooded his lungs.

His eyes widened in alarm, then squeezed shut at the crushing pain in his chest that sent him curling inwards. At once, a strong arm grasped his waist and pulled him close. The robust body behind him pushed up with one arm and drew John to the surface. Sputtering, the other man broke through to the surface and swam breathlessly to the bank, still pulling John with him. His companions immediately scrambled down into the soft wet mud and pulled John’s sodden, unresponsive body onto land. The bearded man’s large hands pumped rhythmically on John’s chest and, in a few moments, he was coughing and spitting up water.

Exhausted, he fell back on the grass and closed his eyes. Gradually, his breaths evened and he opened his eyes. The sun was shining brightly and three men stood around him, curiously studying him. He had recognised one of them as soon as the wet head had emerged from the water after his dunking. That man’s sly smirk now felt like a knife poking his ribs. The bearded behemoth and the other young man were observing him guardedly. Turning his head a little, John sought the fourth man and found him leaning against a tree, one leg bent at the knee, foot flat against the trunk, watching John. His long fingers threaded through his wet hair, shaking out the water. The slowly drying locks would, John knew with nostalgic certainty, eventually spring back into thick, dark curls. Like every other time he had been caught in the mesmerising hold of those translucent green eyes, John was powerless to look anywhere else.

The man pushed himself off the tree and slowly advanced towards John who followed his approach as if on a leash. The man’s eyes flicked over his men and with a slight tilt of his head, he silently commanded them to step away. They turned around and walked to the tree. The leader then knelt beside John and looked over his body. He parted his flushed lips to speak but then pressed them together. A droplet of water glittered on his long lashes like a gemstone in the sun. His soaking clothes clung to him in long, wet patches.

‘Robin Hood’, John whispered. It was not a question.

The young man, his creamy skin moist and shining under the warm sun, nodded once. There was a long silent interval of gazing at each other.

Then John sighed the one word that gave his whole world meaning again. ‘Sherlock.’


	18. Chapter 18

_‘Robin Hood’, John whispered. It was not a question._

_The young man, his creamy skin moist and shining under the warm sun, nodded once. Slowly. There was a long silent interval of gazing at each other._

_Then John sighed the one word that gave his whole world meaning again. ‘Sherlock.’_

\-----------

‘Your Grace’, said Sherlock.

The cold utterance of the royal title was an icicle pricking through John’s wet robes. But he did not ask to be called by name. It was too soon. With a groan he pushed up onto his elbows and then slowly worked himself into an upright position. His lungs carried some residual water and he coughed a few times more.

Sherlock waited, a faint furrow of concern forming between his brows. Then, with unanticipated consideration he offered, ‘We have spare clothes, if you would like to dry yourself off.’

The sweetness of the impulsive gesture fanned the spark of hope inside John into a small flame. But he kept his voice level. ‘That would be most kind’, he replied in a clipped, polite manner, as he would to a thoughtful stranger.

They rose to their feet and headed unhurriedly towards the three men watching them from under the tree. On the way, Sherlock spoke again.

‘How did you know?’

‘I listened’, said John.

‘Explain.’

‘Sufyan had spoken of your exceptional skill with the bow. And you said you were named Sherlock for your homelands. Rumour has it that Robin Hood was born in the village of Locksley in the county of Huntingdon. Robin of Locksley who spent his childhood playing in Sherwood Forest. “Sherlock”.’ He gave a mirthless smile, admiring the logic behind the name. Then he shrugged. ‘It was not that complicated.’ He waited for Sherlock to confirm his conclusion.

‘Not to you’, Sherlock allowed, momentarily unguarded.

The faltering bond reforming between them permeated John’s thirsting skin like rain in a desert. But too soon, the connection was severed and Sherlock looked away.

‘Why Robin?’ John asked.

‘Rubin is the Arabic name my mother gave me. I was born at daybreak and she said I was a quiet child and only cried out when the sun’s first rays hit my face. Like a robin.’

Fondness warmed John’s cheeks. ‘Robin’, he murmured. The name felt light and charming on his tongue. ‘It becomes you.’

Sherlock searched his face with cautious eyes and a tightness spread through John’s chest. He wanted to say more but they had reached the other men.

One of the young men and John shared an oblique glance of mutual recognition. That youth stepped up to Sherlock and placed an awkward hand on his forearm. Sherlock covered his hand with his but did not push him away. To the other two men, this might have merely seemed the gesture of a concerned friend, but John recognised this as a blatant display of possession.

‘Untie the horse’, Sherlock said, giving his friend a reason to disengage himself.

The young man released Sherlock’s forearm with a scowl and jogged over the bridge to untie Starlight and lead her across, to the other side. As soon as she stepped off the bridge, she bobbed her head vigorously at John but trotted happily over to Sherlock and nuzzled her wet nose into his neck.

‘Hello, Starlight’, Sherlock murmured, stroking her forehead. He pressed his lips to her nose.

A pang of affection throbbed inside John to see his horse rekindle her friendship with the man dearest to him.

Still stroking her forehead, Sherlock said, ‘You remember Alan. Alan-a-dale.’

‘How can I forget’, John sneered.

Sherlock jerked his chin up in the direction of the colossus. ‘Will Scarlett’, he said in introduction. Then, looking at the fourth man whom John did not recognise, he said, ‘Much, the Miller’s son.’

John tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Who amongst you is the minstrel?’ he inquired.

‘That would be Alan’, said Much, with a mocking laugh. ‘He plays his lyre all day long, untunefully, and scares away the birds.’

Alan slapped Much on the back. ‘If I am that untuneful’, he groused, ‘why do you sing along?’

Sherlock and John watched their playful exchange and, inadvertently, their own gazes collided in a tender visual grapple. In the next instant, Sherlock’s body started as if struck by lightning. He looked away.

‘This is Sir John Watson, Duke of Northumberland’, said Sherlock.  

Leading Starlight by her reins on his left, he strolled deeper into the forest. John fell into step on his right. Sherlock’s companions walked behind them.

Will cleared his throat. ‘And why have we not robbed Sir John and sent him running back in his underclothes, as we would any other nobleman?’

Much punched him in the shoulder. ‘Because you gave him your word?’

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. A beat later, he said, ‘And because he is not like any other nobleman.’

Will was a shrewd man. ‘I can see that’, he observed. ‘He is quite special, is he not? Sir John Watson of Northumberland…’, he repeated, his voice trailing off.

Sherlock knew him well. Will would not let this go. ‘What are you implying, Will?’

‘Just that you would not jump into the river to rescue any ordinary nobleman.’ He waited for Sherlock’s flustered confutation but it did not come. He decided to nettle John instead. ‘Your Grace, should we expect the King’s soldiers to drag us to the gallows tomorrow?’

John stopped, faced Will directly and declared, ‘I would never betray Robin Hood. Or his friends.’

‘Why should we believe you?’ Will demanded. ‘I do not trust you.’

Sherlock stepped up to Will. ‘Do you trust _me_ , Will?’

Will’s ruddy cheeks went even redder under his brown beard. ‘You know I do!’

‘Then I am telling you that Sir John can be trusted.’ He stood ramrod straight, his hands on his hips, staring down the taller man, every bit the leader of this motley group of men.

A frisson of gladness, and the smallest bit of pride, skittered through John at Sherlock’s staunch defence of him.

‘Fine!’ Will laughed.

Sherlock trusted this stranger and, in any case, the genial goliath could not stay guarded, or quiet, very long.

‘You are a strange one, Robin’, he chuckled, thumping Sherlock on his shoulder. ‘As are you, my lord Duke. A strange pair the two of you are – Robin Hood and Little John’, he said. The comment about John’s physical stature held nary a care for John’s royal rank.

Much snickered. ‘ _Little_ John just knocked you into the water, Will!’ he taunted. ‘I think it is clear who is truly little’, he pointed out with a mischievous giggle.

Will grabbed Much by the shoulders and shook him hard. ‘You little scallywag!’ he roared and started to drag the struggling boy down to the ground. ‘I will teach you to be respectful to your elders.’

‘Mercy!’ Much squealed.

‘Will’, said Sherlock.

The older man’s name spoken in that iron tone secured his immediate obedience. John felt a thrill at the palpable maleness of Sherlock. Will straightened and let Much go.

Sherlock spun around abruptly and started walking again. ‘Much’, he called out over his shoulder, ‘Sir John will need to borrow your clothes while his dry.’

Will came up beside John. ‘You, my lord, fight well enough to be named a Merry Man. We are still recruiting’, he winked.

‘I would fain join your lively group’, John retorted, ‘but I have duties and-’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ the bearded man scoffed. ‘You obviously favour Robin and would not want to see him come to harm. You do not have to _live_ in Sherwood. You could be our eyes and ears behind the King’s walls. He wants Robin dead.’

‘And Sir John did, too’, Sherlock interjected.

John’s head jerked up.

Sherlock shrugged. ‘It is quite obvious. The King’s men have convinced the public at large that Robin Hood murdered Sir Ailric and his family.’

‘That is what most people think. But not the people of Wickham. I spoke with Wilfred de Bracy at the Long and the Cross.’

‘You went into Wickham? Why?’

‘Because I wanted to learn about Robin Hood. I wanted to learn his secrets, his weaknesses, so that when I found him, I would not simply kill him.’ John snorted, recalling his blood-lust for the death of Robin Hood. ‘I would _destroy_ him.’

‘That is an overly vehement goal’, Sherlock noted mildly. ‘I cannot imagine why-’

‘Because’, John interrupted him, ‘I thought Robin Hood had murdered you! I am-’, his trembling voice choked, ‘unimaginably relieved that you are safe. And Alan… Your parents… I am sorry for your loss.’

Sherlock bit his lower lip but said nothing.

‘What happened?’ John prodded.

‘Alan and I… we had spent the day in Sherwood. We returned home that evening and found the castle ransacked by men in armour. They had killed my parents. We followed them into Wickham where we saw them drag my parents’ bodies into the barn and set it on fire. We stayed hidden while Wilfred and the kind folk of Wickham put out the fire. Alan and I recovered their bodies in the night and gave them as proper a burial as we could right here, in Sherwood.’

‘The soldiers must have lied that they killed you and Alan.’

Hmm.’

‘How… uh, how do you know Alan? Who is he?’

‘He is…’, Sherlock started to explain but Alan interrupted them from behind.

‘I am a friend. A _very close_ friend.’

‘Of course’, said John.

‘Why did you come here?’ Sherlock asked him.

John’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How could I not? I- I had hope that you were alive!’

Sherlock smirked. ‘As that hope is now certainty, you may leave after your clothes have dried.’

‘I have matters to discuss with you. Might we speak in private?’

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose, considering his words. ‘Your Grace, you and I have no reason to speak in private.’

He pulled ahead of John but found his advance was impeded by John’s hand clasping his forearm.

‘Do not be a fool, Sherlock! Listen to me!’

Sherlock roughly shook his arm free but looked over his shoulder and indicated, with a glance, that the others should fall back. They complied.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the others, John spoke. He had to know. ‘You touched me in the river.’

‘I wished to strangle you.’

They both knew the absurd explanation was a lie. Yet the artless alacrity with which it was offered made John laugh. The warm, intimate sound made Sherlock flinch; his flitting eyes betrayed his panic.

John gentled his voice. ‘Did Sufyan not teach you the difference between cheek and throat?’

‘I was not the most attentive of students’, Sherlock retorted.

John’s heart swelled. And then crumpled. This easy manner of speaking about their past was a fragile gift. He sensed their bond growing stronger and feared saying too much too soon. Still, he could not stop himself.

‘I think you were worried about me’, he theorised. Then, with a self-assured grin, he took a leap. ‘I think you were happy to see me.’

That was a mistake. Sherlock glared at him, eyes flashing. John saw a storm of emotions in that green fire – hurt, anger, distrust, fear. More hurt. But no warmth. Sherlock was pulling away from him. The thread between them was stretched tight, quivering tautly. Then it snapped.

‘What must I do, Your Grace,’ Sherlock hissed, ‘so that you leave Sherwood and never return?’

It might not have been a denial of John’s assertion, but the passionate authenticity in Sherlock’s voice hacked through him.

‘Have I fallen that much in your eyes?’ he asked, his own voice soft with repentance.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and bit his lips, as if reliving his own pain. A moment later, his mind was made up. ‘My lord, I entreat you to state your business and leave. I imagine this encounter is as disagreeable to you as it is to me. I can think of no earthly reason to protract it.’

Feigning indifference to the fact that he had been unequivocally spurned, John tilted his head in concession. But it was an agonising few moments before he could push past the knot in his throat.

‘I- I believe’, he said thickly, ‘I know the man who called himself _Ta’lab_.’

A jerk of his head was the only sign that Sherlock was taken by surprise. ‘Who do you think it is?’

‘King Charles.’

Disbelieving green eyes stared at John. ‘What?’

‘Something I heard at the Long and the Cross reminded me that King Henry referred to his sons as the Lion and the Fox, courage in the heart and cunning in the head. We both know who the Lion was.’

‘Why would King Charles want me dead? I am no threat to him.’

‘I do not know… perhaps he wanted to capture Saladin’s nephew for ransom. I do not know! But he might have made a second attempt on _your_ life when he had his soldiers kill your parents.’

‘They were not the King’s soldiers.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I saw their uniforms. The King’s soldiers still bear the crest of Henry.’

‘The double-headed heraldic eagle clasping two swords in its talons?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the soldiers who attacked Huntingdon?’ John asked softly.

‘They bore the emblem of a shining star above a cross.’

‘The Church of the Shining One!’ John gasped. ‘Mycroft spoke of this. But why-’

‘My lord’, Sherlock interrupted, letting out an impatient sigh, ‘you speak of men and things not known to me and that do not bring my parents back. This is tiresome.’

‘Do you not understand? Your life is in danger! I cannot stand idly by and watch you being-’

‘My life is in danger every day, my lord!’ Sherlock’s voice was raised and his eyes flashed. ‘That is what it means to be an outlaw.’ Beside him, Starlight sensed the rising tensions and gave a nervous snuffle. ‘I do not wish to keep you any longer than needed.’

The rejection stung, but John had entered Sherwood for two reasons. He had ascertained that Sherlock was alive. He had yet to prevent Sherlock’s capture by the Sheriff of Nottingham.

They had reached a small clearing in the woods where four tents stood around an extinguished fire.

‘I will leave as soon as my clothes are dry’, he said. ‘Will you listen to what I have to say until then?’

Will Scarlett stepped in. ‘Come now, Robin! Why not hear what the Duke has to say?’

Sherlock glared at his friend but then sighed because the other two men were looking at him with a combination of hope and confusion. ‘Very well, Your Grace. What do you wish to tell us?’

Savouring the small victory, John said, ‘Clothes first? The sooner I am dry, the sooner I will leave.’ He would do whatever he could to remain with Sherlock a little longer.

‘Of course’, Sherlock snapped. ‘Much?’

‘Please come this way, Sir John’, said the Miller’s son.

John looked over the sodden men. ‘Do you not also need to change into dry clothes?’

‘We are hardy outlaws, Your Grace’, Will laughed. ‘A little water is not going to kill us!’

John smiled. He followed Much to his tent where Much handed him a spare set of clothes and stepped out. John stripped himself of his wet robes and donned Much’s clothes. He emerged from Much’s tent and hung his robes over low-lying branches.

The four men were seated on the ground in a circle. The fire had been lit and Will was roasting a large skewered chunk of meat over the flames.

‘The King’s venison?’ asked John. ‘You could be killed for that.’

‘At least we will die with full stomachs’, Will shrugged.

‘Now, Your Grace’ said Sherlock, ‘about what danger do you wish to warn us?’

‘You are said to be the finest archer is all the land.’

‘I am’, Sherlock responded. His tone carried no vanity.

John smiled. ‘The Sheriff of Nottingham has announced an archery tournament, ostensibly to celebrate the coronation of King Charles.’

‘We are aware of it. The prize is the _Mac tíre-fiach Arrow_. I am going to win it, of course.’

‘Of course you are’, John agreed. ‘Which is why I am here to beg you not to go.’

‘Why would he not?’ Alan demanded. ‘They do not know what he looks like. Everyone thinks Robin Hood looks like Will.’

‘That is true’, Will chuckled, waiting for John’s rebuttal.

‘ _I_ did not think that’, John said, fixing Alan with a stony look.

‘That also is true’, Will chortled louder.

John’s hard exhale misted in the chilly morning air. ‘It is a ploy to smoke Robin Hood out of Sherwood Forest. No archer with any confidence in his abilities would miss the tournament. If the prize were rewarding enough, the finest archer in Britain, even though he is a wolf’s head, would not be able to resist participating. And when he wins the contest and comes up to the podium to claim his prize, the Sheriff’s men will put him to the sword.’

Much gasped but Sherlock did not seem perturbed. ‘That is quite clever. I did not think the Sheriff had men of intelligence on his staff.’

‘He does not.’

‘Who suggested this tournament, then?’

John waited a moment. Then, ‘I did’, he admitted.

A flash of admiration softened Sherlock’s stony features for an instant.

‘I did not know then that you are Robin Hood. Please tell me you will not participate.’

‘If I do not, the contest will still have a winner who might be assumed to be Robin Hood and promptly killed by the Sheriff’s men. If nothing else, it would send a bloody message to outlaws everywhere.’

‘I will make sure the winner is not harmed.’

‘How?’

‘I do not know yet!’ John was frustrated. ‘But I will think of something. I just want your word that you and your friends will not come to Nottingham!’

‘I- Your Grace, I thank you for your concern but you presume too much by asking me to do, or not do, anything.’

‘Please’, John bit out. His voice shook. ‘I am _pleading_ with you.’

Sherlock’s face was devoid of empathy. ‘My lord’, he said, ‘I learned from _you_ that pleading is futile.’ Sherlock stood up and walked away, leaving John in the company of his friends.

\-----------

The three stole glances at John, embarrassed for him.

John shrugged. ‘We might engage in pleasant conversation’, he said. ‘How did you meet Sher- Robin?’

As John expected, Will spoke first. ‘He saved me from being hanged. I was accused of attempting to violate a young girl in Wickham. No one believed her when she said it was a soldier in the King’s army and that I had rescued her from the bastard.’ Will held up a fist. ‘Bashed his face in and tore him off her before he could-. Of course, raising a hand against a soldier is tantamount to raising it against the King. I was accused of the crime and sentenced to a public hanging.

‘Robin was in Wickham at the time, in disguise. He spoke to the girl and saw that I was innocent. I was being led to the gallows in the village square when a hail of arrows came flying through the air, wounding the soldiers in their shoulders, thighs, nowhere that would be fatal. I took my chance and ran off in the direction of the arrows. I only stopped when I found myself in Sherwood Forest, looking at Robin Hood. I never left.’

John was gladdened by this demonstration of Sherlock’s compassion. ‘But how did people come to think _you_ are Robin Hood?’

‘That is because Will _told_ them’, Much complained loudly. ‘I lived in Eastwick when I was caught stealing from the King’s granaries. I had almost fled the scene when an arrow from a soldier’s crossbow caught the sleeve of my tunic and threw me back against the outside wall, pinning me there while the soldier approached me. Try as I might, I could not pull my sleeve free. The arrow was lodged too tightly in the wood. His sword was drawn, readied to plunge it into my stomach. That was when we both heard a whizzing sound and saw an arrow tear towards us, aimed at me.’

Much gave a nervous laugh. ‘I have never prayed that hard in my life! Death seemed certain but, quite wondrously, the second arrow pierced the head of the soldier’s arrow and splintered it. My sleeve came free. Seeing that the soldier was still in shock, I enthusiastically applied my knee to his groin and ran away. Robin was crouched behind a cottage a short distance away. Will and Alan were with him. Robin was waving an arm, asking me to run towards Sherwood, but Alan, the fool, shouted out to me. The other soldiers heard him and rushed upon them with swords drawn.

‘They came out from behind the cottage, holding up their longbows, wearing their hoods. Will immediately stepped in front of Alan and Robin. He considers himself our father. Of course, he is large enough to be our father!’ Much scoffed. ‘The soldier asked him who he was. _Robin, the Hooded Man_ , he said. That was when the legend of Robin Hood was born.’

‘And it is a good one’, Will laughed. ‘We made quick work of the soldiers and stole Much away. For a boy of fifteen summers, you talk too much, lad. If you were my son, I would box your ears daily.’ He lunged at Much who scampered away, laughing. Will pushed himself to his feet and chased the yelping youth through the trees.

John was left alone with Alan who glowered at him.

‘Why do you hate me?’ John asked. He was past pretending with Alan.

‘I think you wounded Sherlock somehow. Grievously. He will not tell me what happened but I saw his pain that day you came to visit. I see that same pain in his eyes today.’

‘I did wrong him’, John admitted. ‘But I truly did not think I mattered enough to wound him that deeply. I expected the hurt to be all mine.’

Alan was not interested in John’s justifications. ‘Why are you here now, my lord? What is a Duke doing in the lair of a wolf’s-head?’

‘I made a vow.’

‘What vow?’

‘That is as much as I shall tell you, young Alan. But I would ask you to keep Sherlock happy. And safe. Please.’

‘I will.’

John ran his hands over his drying robes ‘My clothes are wearable again. I shall take your leave.’

Alan stood up and waited while John re-entered Much’s tent and changed into his own still-damp clothes.

‘Here’, he said, holding out the coin-heavy pouch. ‘Keep this. I am likely to be observed leaving Sherwood. It will seem suspicious if I return with my coin.’

Alan wordlessly took the pouch from John’s palm.

John pulled out his poniard and sliced through his robes, as if he had been in a fight. ‘Convincing?’ he asked Alan.

Alan stepped forward and pulled at the tear in John’s sleeve and ripped off a piece, leaving threads trailing down his forearms. He scooped up some mud and rubbed it on John’s jaw and forehead. He inserted a few leaves in John’s hair. Then he pulled off John’s cape.

‘Can you ride bareback?’ he asked.

‘I can’, John replied.

Alan slit the leather straps binding the saddle to Starlight’s body and dragged it to the ground. He took a step back to survey John and Starlight. ‘Convincing’, he said.

An uneasy accord had formed between the two men who represented Sherlock’s recent past and his present. And possibly his future.

‘Thank you, Alan. Will you tell Sherlock that I beg him, most earnestly, not to participate in the tournament?’

‘I will tell him but we both know he makes up his own mind.’

John nodded sadly. ‘I know.’

‘Perhaps Your Grace should contrive to ensure the safety of the winner’, Alan sneered, ‘because Sherlock _is_ going to win the Arrow of the Wolf-hunt.’


	19. Chapter 19

It was a glorious morning in Nottingham. The sun shone down brightly on the vast expanse of the green tournament grounds. Not a single cloud dotted the blue skies.

King Charles was seated in a high-back wooden throne, dressed in full royal regalia, flanked by Mycroft on his right and on his left, the Sheriff of Nottingham. Sir Guy of Gisburne stood behind the Sheriff. John cut a grim figure standing behind Mycroft. The King’s standard, bearing the two-headed heraldic eagle, flapped cheerily from tall flagpoles posted all around the grounds.

Soldiers kept watch over the proceedings, their hands clasping the hilts of their sheathed swords, ready to react to the smallest disturbance with punishing finality. There seemed to be as many soldiers as common folk. In the days leading up to the main tournament, local contests had been held to identify the three best archers from each county. Those sixty or so archers now stood in queues awaiting their turn to make their county proud. An astonishing number of older bowmen had qualified; they were eager to pit their skills against the younger swashbucklers. Charles was pleased with the arrangements and remarkable attendance.

‘This was an excellent notion, cousin’, Charles enthused to John. ‘I do believe we will have Robin Hood’s head at the tip of my sword before the day ends.’

Behind Mycroft, John stiffened. His eyes scoured the throng of archers, searching for a familiar face. Five vigilant sweeps later, he rested a little easy because Sherlock was not among the contestants. He did, however, espy a face he had not expected to encounter here. A face from the Holy Land.

‘Let the tournament begin!’ Charles proclaimed.

The King’s herald blew loudly on his trumpet, one long piercing burst to capture the attention of the assembly. The King, as the guest of honour, and the Sheriff, as the sponsor of the tournament, were given fulsome introductions. Then the herald sounded his trumpet again, three short bursts this time, and announced the start of the Nottingham Archery Tourney.

The first ten archers bowed in the direction of the podium, then took their positions, standing in a single row behind the waiting line.

‘Nock!’ the herald announced.

The archers each pulled an arrow from their quivers, pointed their bows to the ground and nocked their arrows in the bowstring, wedging the vane between their index and middle fingers and resting the arrowhead above their fists that held the bow.

‘Draw!’

Ten bows smoothly swung up in unison and the archers took aim at their targets placed fifty paces away.

Five beats later came the last command. ‘Loose!’

Loud hisses punctured the air as ten arrows raced towards their targets, shafts vibrating with the force of ejection. Almost immediately, ten dull thuds announced that all archers had hit their targets. The crowd erupted in a loud cheer.

A squire who had been standing off to the side stepped up to each target and announced the results. The three most precise archers were sent to the next round to excited applause from their audience.

This process was repeated until only ten contestants remained. The targets were lifted and moved another fifteen paces away. The distance between archer and target was now sixty-five paces.

The next round eliminated another seven archers, leaving the three best archers in the land.

‘Bow to your King!’ the herald commanded. The men turned to face the dais where Charles sat with his retinue.

‘Introduce yourselves!’ the herald instructed.

The first man who stepped forward was tall and slender, of French descent as evidenced by his curling moustache, neatly pointed beard and the jaunty cap he wore at a cheerful tilt over his dark curls. His green eyes sparkled with the excitement of the occasion. ‘Raimbaut Hugolin at your service, Your Majesty.’

‘Well done, Monsieur Hugolin!’ Charles grinned. He turned to the Sheriff. ‘Do you suppose he is Robin Hood? I thought he was English?’

‘Your Majesty, if Hugolin is Robin Hood, he will win the tourney.’

‘Hmm…yes…’ Charles pondered. ‘Unless Robin Hood has chosen not to participate.’ He lifted a regal finger to the herald.

Next!’ the herald barked.

The second man was short, rotund and dressed in a monk’s habit. The crown of his head was tonsured, leaving a neatly trimmed band of hair around the circumference. A Friar.

‘I am Tuck, Your Majesty’, he introduced himself, his alert eyes flicking over the men on the podium. John acknowledged him with an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I serve our Lord at Titchfield Abbey.’

‘How is a servant of God so proficient with the bow?’

‘I was a Hospitaller, Your Majesty. I served in Jerusalem and Acre under your late brother.’

‘Ah’, said Charles, visibly upset by the mention of Richard. He leaned over to the Sheriff. ‘Well, _that_ certainly is not Robin Hood.’

‘It does seem quite improbable, Your Majesty’, the Sheriff agreed. ‘Short and fat does not a nimble wolf’s-head make.’

‘Although, he might _roll_ into Sherwood faster than soldiers on horses!’ Charles sneered. The royal finger went up again.

‘Next!’

An elderly man stepped forward. His shoulders were hunched with age and his long gray hair and gray beard streamed down around his face in a gray halo. The picture was completed by his loose gray robes. His eyes, however, were alert under bushy eyebrows. He coughed a few times. The King grew impatient.

‘State your name!’ the herald shouted again.

‘Your Majesty’, the old man rasped, ‘my name is William Donninghut.’ He paused for a cough. Then, clearing his throat, ‘I hail from a small hamlet near Mablethorpe.’ He coughed again, pressing a hand to his chest.

‘You can scarcely unbend your spine or draw clear breath, William Donninghut. How do you expect to win this contest?’

‘Just as I found my way to this last confrontation of three, Your Majesty. By shooting better than everyone else.’

‘You exhibit rather overweening ambition for an old man’, Charles remarked. Then he leaned towards the Sheriff again. ‘Robert, none of these men is Robin Hood. I am glad it is not _my_ five-thousand-pound arrow with mythical powers at stake’, he laughed. 

Beside him, Sir Robert de Rainault’s face soured as though he had ingested a mouthful of curdled milk.

‘Well done, men!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘You are the best archers in the country, but who is the finest? Let us find out!’

The three men took their positions in front of their targets which had been moved another ten paces back, making the distance between archer and target seventy-five paces.

The Friar shot first. His arrow lodged itself just outside the innermost circle. The Frenchman’s arrow found its target within the innermost circle. William Donninghut’s arrow also, miraculously, pierced the innermost circle. That eliminated the Friar and left Raimbaut Hugolin and the old man.

Donninghut cleared his throat. ‘My lords!’ he said. ‘Might I suggest a way of making this last round more exciting?’

The audience fell silent. Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘Go on.’

‘It will be easier to compare accuracy on a single target. Furthermore, let the target be moved another twenty-five paces. A hundred paces seems like a satisfactory distance between archer and target, does it not?’

‘Bravo, old William’, Charles slapped his thigh. ‘I like the way you think. We shall do that if Monsieur Hugolin agrees.’

The Frenchman lifted an arrogant hand. ‘I will agree to any challenge from the old man’, he smirked.

‘Your Majesty, as I am the older between us, I will ask young Monsieur Hugolin for the privilege of shooting second.’

Hugolin gave a small bow. ‘Very well, Monsieur Donninghut.’

A squire standing with the King’s coterie ran up to the steward handling the targets to give the message. All targets were removed except one which was moved back so that it was a hundred paces from the bowmen.

John had been studying the old man with interest. And an insistent niggle. Apparently, so had Mycroft.

‘I say, William Donninghut’, Mycroft spoke for the first time, ‘you must have great faith in your abilities to suggest this.’

‘I do, Your Grace. But I also have little to lose. I, too, expect Monsieur Hugolin to win, but all this old man seeks is a little entertainment before he returns to his mundane existence.’

‘We shall not deny you your entertainment, William’, said Charles, ‘as you have regaled us well today.’ He snapped his fingers, summoning the herald. ‘Explain the rules of this last round to the people.’

The herald explained, in a booming voice, that the last two contestants would be shooting at a single target set a hundred paces away and that Hugolin would shoot first.

A hush fell over the crowd as Hugolin took his position at the waiting line. He nocked his arrow and pulled back on the bowstring until his hand was flush with his cheek. Directly in his line of sight was the arrowhead resting on his other hand clasped tight around the bow. In his vision, the tip of the arrowhead was perfectly aligned with the centre of the target far in the distance. When he felt the air had stilled and he had drowned out the sounds of the watching public, he left fly with his arrow.

The shaft made its way through the airy curtain, undulating with the force of its discharge, twisting as it hurtled towards the target and decisively pierced the wood exactly in the middle of the circle.

The crowd took up a jubilant cheer and applauded the Frenchman. Still holding his bow, he raised his arms and pumped his fists in the air. Beaming, he turned around to face the podium and bowed first to the King, then the Sheriff and finally Mycroft. Then he straightened.

‘Your turn, Monsieur Donninghut’, he said to the old man. Then, with a derisive laugh, ‘I apologise that I have not left you anywhere to shoot.’

The old man tutted thoughtfully. ‘It is true, Monsieur Hugolin. I never had any hope of besting you. But let an old man shoot his last arrow.’

When William Donninghut took his position at the waiting line for this final shot in the tournament, he appeared to transform into a different man. Unfolding his body from its hunched posture, he appeared as tall as Hugolin. He readied himself, much like Hugolin had. His body vibrated with single-minded focus.

Closing his eyes, he blew out a slow, deep breath. Then his eyes opened and his attention narrowed until the only object in his vision was the target. But he could not see the centre because Hugolin’s shaft was lodged in it. What he did see was its nock. _Even better,_ thought Donninghut. When he released his own arrow, the feathered fletching undulated in the air and guided the missile towards its target. The King, the royals on the podium, the soldiers, the village folk, Hugolin all held their breaths while Donninghut’s arrow gracefully progressed towards the target.

Instead of the expected thud, there was a faint slicing sound and there suddenly appeared to be three arrows lodged in the target. The steward ran up to the target and gawked at it in disbelief. Unwilling to interpret the results and declare the winner, he gestured to another steward to help carry the target to the King. They hurried to the waiting line and placed it before the podium. Charles rose from his throne to inspect the board.

‘What! How is this possible?’ he asked.

Donninghut’s arrow had carved right through Hugolin’s shaft and was wedged in the fissure in its arrowhead. There was no doubt who had won the contest.

Donninghut shrugged and assumed his hunch again. But he grinned and his teeth were a little too white, a little too perfect for a man of his advanced years. John took a step forward and dropped his eyes to William’s hands. Young and supple, covered in smooth skin. The forehead above the sparkling green irises was unlined. The cheeks above the gray beard were smooth, the cheekbones sharp. He studied William’s eyes and saw recognition in them when William looked at him.

_Oh God, Sherlock, what have you done!_

Mycroft had, evidently, made identical observations for he stepped down from the podium and stood before Charles.

‘Your face is that of an old man, William Donninghut’, said Mycroft, ‘but your hands are young.’

John immediately joined him on the ground, subtly placing himself between Mycroft and Sherlock. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword.

‘Oh, you speak of impossible things, my lord’, Donninghut mumbled hurriedly and retracted his hands under the overhang of his long, loose sleeves. ‘Seventy summers I have seen.’ He coughed again, for effect.

‘Who are you?’ Mycroft asked, unconvinced by Donninghut’s act. He was peering with great interest at the old man. ‘Robin Hood?’

‘Robin Hood? No, no, my lord!’ said the old man, his panicked laugh deteriorating into a hacking cough. When he had recovered, he said, ‘William Donninghut is the name my father gave me. I should like to claim my prize and leave you fine gentleman to your business.’ He looked around and saw soldiers closing in on him. He took a wary step back.

John immediately grabbed Donninghut by the collar of his tunic and drew _Invaincu_ from its scabbard.

‘Are you Robin Hood?’ he shouted and pushed him back, away from the soldiers circling them. He leaned in close. _‘You fool! I told you not to come!’_ he snarled under his breath. He dragged Sherlock away from the soldiers. ‘Did you think you could deceive the King’s men? On your knees!’ he shouted again, pushing down on Sherlock. _‘Punch me and take my sword’_ , he ground out in a whisper.

‘No, my lord!’ William gave a plaintive cry, resisting John’s downward shove. ‘I am but an old man!’

‘I shall deal with the wolf’s-head, Your Majesty’, John said to Charles and dragged Sherlock farther away from the King and his men to a clearing in the crowd, as if to make a spectacle of his arrest. He leaned close to Sherlock’s ear. _‘Hit me, snatch my sword and take me hostage’_ he growled. _‘Take me with you until you can disappear into Sherwood. Make it real!’_

Sherlock looked at John for just one moment to make sure he meant it. Then, with a litheness that gave the lie to his disguise, he slipped out of John’s hold, knocked Invaincu out of his hands, grabbed it and held it to John’s throat. With the other hand, he clutched John’s robes at his shoulder. He started walking backwards away from the tournament grounds. Sherwood Forest lay a furlong away, just beyond a small hillock. ‘If anybody moves’, he called out in his own voice, charged with the vigour of his youth, ‘the Duke here will die!’

‘Stay back!’ Mycroft ordered the soldiers, not caring that the King could overrule him.

‘My prize, if you please. Sir Guy? After all, I did win.’

Sir Guy blinked and looked to the Sheriff for direction. The Sheriff looked at Charles.

‘It is your tournament and your arrow, Robert’, said Charles. ‘Do with it as you wish.’ Obviously he cared naught for John’s safety.

‘Sir Guy’, Robin Hood called out, ‘you might make yourself useful and hurry my prize to me.’

Sir Robert wavered but Mycroft, who was second in power to only the King, nodded and Sir Guy immediately lifted the heavy silver arrow from its box and took it over to the outlaw and his hostage.

Sherlock yanked roughly on John’s robe. ‘Your Grace, I need to make use of your hands.’

John took the arrow from Sir Guy. He made a show of struggling against Sherlock’s hold. Sherlock pressed _Invaincu’s_ blade closer to John’s neck.

‘Get back’, Sherlock barked at Sir Guy.

Still holding John in a death grip, Sherlock walked backwards over the hillock, taking John with him. He threw glances over his shoulder every so often to make sure his path was clear. When they were past the hump and on the downward slope, they raced towards Sherwood and stopped just inside its periphery. Concealed behind a large tree, John handed him the silver arrow. Sherlock hesitated, then took it.

‘Hit me’, John urged Sherlock.

‘What? No! I cannot!’

‘If you do not, they might suspect me of abetting you in your escape.’

Sherlock knew that anyone the King suspected was likely to be killed. ‘Why would you do this for me?’ His voice was ragged.

There was no time to answer redundant questions. ‘Hit me, Sherlock. Or I will have to hit myself and that might not be as convincing.’

His face crinkling in regret, Sherlock made a fist and swung it at John’s jaw.

John tottered. ‘Once more!’ he urged. ‘In my stomach.’

Sherlock threw another punch. John crashed to the ground. Sherlock sank to his knees and touched John’s face where his fist had struck his jaw. His eyes glistened.

John did not notice because his own eyes were squeezed shut against the throbbing pain. ‘Good, good’, he gasped. ‘Now… you must go to Sussex Castle. Take your friends with you but travel in pairs.  Ask for Sir Gregory Lestrade. Tell him you seek the Gray Wolf of Northumberland. He will keep you safe.’

A teardrop glimmered on Sherlock’s lashes, threatening to roll down his cheek. ‘Why would you do this for me?’

This time John saw his face. ‘You know why’, he said simply.

Reaching up to his face, he stroked Sherlock’s fingers where they still lightly touched his jaw.

‘That is not how you strangle someone’, he smiled.

Sherlock flushed an endearing pink and bit his lower lip hard. ‘No, it is not’, he murmured.

He turned his hand and placed it flat against John’s, palms touching, fingers touching. Stealing a momentary respite from the madness around them, they allowed themselves to be alone with each other in a delicate, crystalline bubble in time, looking at their hands joined like that – Sherlock’s long fingers extending beyond John’s, the warmth flowing from one to the other.

Too soon, the crystal shattered because that was all the time they had. John pulled his hand away.  

‘Now take _Invaincu_ and go.’

Sherlock lingered, just looking at John. His hand tightened around _Invaincu_.

‘Go, Sherlock! Please! The soldiers will be here soon.’

As he spoke, a long line of soldiers appeared over the hillock but Sherlock was frozen in his spot, eyes fixed on John. That would not do. John launched himself at Sherlock. The sudden attack resulted in Sherlock instinctively throwing him off. John rolled on the grass and clutched his stomach.

‘Go!’ he hissed.

Sherlock pulled off his disguise and threw the gray hair and beard on the ground.

‘Forgive me!’ he cried out as he ran into Sherwood Forest, grasping _Invaincu_ and his prize, and disappeared among the trees.

 _Forgive you?_ John thought as he watched Sherlock’s departing form. _For what? For making me fall in love with you? For breaking my heart? I deserved that for breaking yours first. Do not be sorry. Just be safe, my darling. Be happy. I love you._


	20. Chapter 20

Sussex Castle, two days later. Theo answered the loud knock on the front door.

‘Yes? How may I help you?’ he smiled at the bedraggled men who stood before him.

‘We were asked to come here by Sir John Watson.’

Theo’s eyes flitted between the two men. One was as tall as he and closer to him in age than the other man who was a giant. With a scruffy beard.

‘I am Sherlock’, said the younger man. ‘This is Will. We request an audience with Sir Gregory Lestrade.’

‘What business do you have with the Earl?’ Theo asked.

‘We seek the Gray Wolf of Northumberland.’

Theo giggled. He was an excitable young man and this intrigue was thrilling to him. ‘Of course. Please come in. My name is Theodore. You may call me Theo.’

Will exchanged a long look with Theo. Sherlock elbowed him in the side and stepped inside. Will started, cleared his throat and followed Sherlock inside. Theo giggled a little more. Sherlock inwardly questioned the young man’s sobriety.

‘Theo’, Will drawled, a wolfish grin playing on his lips.

‘Will’, Theo returned softly. He could not look away from the hulking man.

Not one to waste a moment in getting what he wanted but also never one to breach his own principles, Will asked, ‘How old are you, Theo?’ The true intent behind the question was inescapable.

Theo blinked, rendered speechless by Will's bluntness. Two beats later, he murmured, ‘Old enough.’

‘Good’, Will said, tilting his head and snaking his tongue out to lick the edge of his lips and torment Theo. His face was veiled, eyes hooded, when he said, ‘I would not have enjoyed waiting.’

Theo’s eyes turned dark; he blushed hard.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Who is the Gray Wolf of Northumberland’, he asked, casting an appraising eye over the Great Hall of Sussex Castle.

‘My father, Sir Gregory. That is what Uncle John calls him.’

‘ _Uncle_ John?’

‘Yes’, said Theo cheerfully. ‘Uncle John was married to my father’s sister.’ But then his gaiety faded. ‘Regrettably, my aunt is no longer with us. My own mother also passed last year from a terrible sickness. Her suffering was great.’ Theo was naively forthcoming with information.

‘I am sorry for your loss’, said Will. He wished to dispel the cloud that had come over Theo. He wanted to make him smile. ‘I can wrestle’, he blurted, apropos of nothing.

Theo looked up, surprised. Suddenly Will felt stupid. But then Theo smiled and Will felt he had been very clever because Theo was bashfully looking over his hulking body.

‘That is a most… expedient talent to possess', said Theo. 'Especially in these times of wolf’s-heads and brigands.’

Will grinned and Theo’s eyes grew darker.

Sherlock shook his head the two blathering idiots. ‘We were expecting two other friends. Have they perhaps arrived already?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Oh yes, yes! They have. They await you in the library. Please, come with me’, he said and led them down to a large study.

Alan and Much were already there, ensconced in comfortable armchairs, poring over a book together. Alan looked very much the older brother teaching his scamp younger brother to read. It brought a smile to Sherlock’s face.

‘Alan. Much’, he said softly. ‘I am glad to see you are both safe.’

‘Robin! Will!’ Much’s excited voice echoed off the walls of the quiet library as he jumped up from his chair.

‘Shhh’, Alan shushed him and playfully cuffed him on the head.

Much stuck his tongue out at Alan. ‘ _Robin_ ’, he said in an exaggerated whisper. ‘ _Will! It is very pleasing to see you both here and unharmed._ ’

‘As it is to see you both. Did you encounter any trouble on the way here?’

‘No’, said Alan. ‘Apart from Much’s incessant and ridiculous chatter.’

‘I had to keep talking to drown out the cacophony from Alan’s lyre’, Much retorted.

That earned him another cuff on the shoulder.

Sherlock laughed, relieved that his friends were safe. ‘Theo’, he asked their host, ‘would it be an imposition to request a bathe?’

‘Not at all! I shall show you to the bath chamber.’

Will walked ahead with Theo and Sherlock followed them to a communal bath chamber. An ewerer prepared two large tubs with hot, scented water. Another ewerer placed towels and a fresh change for clothes for them on a small wooden table.

‘I shall leave you to enjoy your bathe’, said Theo. ‘My father will return shortly. Please join us in the Great Hall when you have bathed.’

‘You have our gratitude, Theo.’

Theo smiled but lingered by the door. His eyes were drawn to Will again. Not one to lose an opportunity to present his admirable physique, Will pulled off his tunic and gave Theo a look of lazy desire so flagrant the youth flushed hard all over his body. He hurried out of the bath chamber, leaving them alone.

\----------

Sherlock and Will entered the Great Hall where servants were laying out a variety of dishes – meats and vegetables and bread – and their stomachs rumbled. A tall, dignified man sat at the head of the table. Theo sat to his right. Much and Alan sat across Theo, on the man’s left.

‘My lord, I am Sherlock. This is Will Scarlett.’

‘I am Sir Gregory Lestrade’, said the older man, with a welcoming nod. ‘Sherlock…’, he said, his eyes narrowing as he inwardly revisited a conversation with John. Then his eyes widened with a sudden realisation. ‘You are Ailric’s boy.’

‘I am, my lord’, Sherlock affirmed.

‘Alan and Much tell me you are also the infamous Robin Hood’, said Gregory.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You should consider giving up the life of an outlaw’, said Gregory, reaching for a goblet of wine. His counsel was that of a kind, concerned elder but his tone expected compliance.

‘I can arrange a new life for you and your friends here in Sussex, one that does not involve being hunted daily by the King’s soldiers.’ He looked up at Sherlock. His eyes had softened. ‘It would be a waste of young lives that hold so much promise. Sir John’s efforts to ensure your safety would not have been in vain. And Theo would benefit from having good friends.’

Much and Alan threw him a hopeful glance. He turned to Will and saw their sentiment reflected on his ruddy face.

‘We would be very grateful, my lord.’

‘Good. Good’, said Gregory. ‘Come, sit. You must be hungry.’

‘Thank you, my lord… Sir Gregory, did... Sir John indicate when he might arrive?’

‘Did he indicate to you that he would come to Sussex?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘I will send word that you and your friends have arrived safely. Sir John might return to Northumberland directly. He has no particular reason to visit Sussex at this time. Does he?’

Gregory was looking right at Sherlock who turned away, denying Gregory his face. He would not allow anyone to see his crushing disappointment.

‘Did you have anything of import to discuss with him?’

‘No, my lord. I only wished to express my gratitude to him. And return his sword.’

‘I shall convey your gratitude and Sir John’s sword to him when I next visit Northumberland. Now, let us eat.’

Sherlock and Will seated themselves at the table. Dinner was served, wine was poured. Alan and Much kept up a nonsensical verbal exchange. Will and Theo kept up a silent visual exchange. Sir Gregory studied Sherlock throughout. When the meal was done, Sir Gregory rose from his seat.

‘Sherlock, I should like a word with you in private.’

‘Certainly, Sir Gregory.’

‘Come with me to the library. Theo’, he hailed his son. ‘Will you entertain our guests while I speak with Sherlock?’

‘I shall, Father.’

‘Good.’ He stepped close to Theo and murmured, ‘If your uncle arrives before we retire for the night, ask him to join us there.’

Theo smiled. ‘As you wish, Father.’

‘Come, Sherlock’, Gregory said and led him back to the library.

When the door was shut and Sherlock was comfortably seated in an armchair, Gregory said, ‘I am sorry for your loss, Sherlock. Your father was a very close friend of mine.’

‘I did not know that, Sir Gregory.’

‘Did Ailric never mention me?'

'He did not, my lord', said Sherlock, looking apologetic.

'I cannot imagine why. Richard, Ailric and I were inseparable, and quite the scamps in our boyhood’, he reminisced fondly.

‘Richard? As in the late King?’

‘Indeed’, Gregory affirmed. ‘The Lionheart himself. He was just Richard to us’, he said, sounding dejected. ‘A year ago, Theo’s mother was stricken by a debilitating malaise that ultimately took her life. Now, within a month, I learn that my two closest friends are no more,’ His face was drawn. ‘I can understand your sorrow, Sherlock.’

Sherlock dropped his head.

‘Sir John told me about how you met in Tiberias. You are a very brave young man.’

‘Sir John thought I was a fool.’ Sherlock sounded nostalgic.

‘He said you saved each other.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘He holds the advantage now.’

Gregory smiled. ‘Sir John is the best man I have ever known. He cares very deeply for you. He would wish nothing but happiness for you.’

‘He also has given me that same assurance’, Sherlock murmured. He did not wish to discuss John with Sir Gregory or anyone. ‘My lord, you knew my father from his boyhood. Would you tell me about him?’

‘Certainly.’ He settled deeper in his chair. ‘Growing up in Kenilworth Castle, Ailric, Richard and I were closer than brothers. Then Richard and I went off to fight in the Holy Land. Ailric stayed behind in England. We loved each other dearly. We knew each other’s loves, too’, he added with a smile.

‘Truly?’ Sherlock asked, intrigued about his adoptive father’s past.

‘Truly’, Gregory assured him. ‘It was in France that Richard’s love almost created an international incident. King Henry had taken the three of us with him to the palace of Phillip Augustus to negotiate terms for the Third Crusade. A young lady in Phillip’s entourage caught Richard’s eye and they were discovered _in flagrante delicto_ by her brother who was, understandably, scandalised and enraged. The young woman swore her brother to secrecy and in return, she pledged never to liaise with Richard again. She kept her promise but over time, a deep trust and respect developed between Richard and her brother.’ He paused and saw that Sherlock was deep in thought, his brows creased.

Sherlock abruptly rose to his feet and walked to the window.

‘Sherlock, what is the matter?’

‘Who was that woman, my lord?’

Gregory was not pleased by Sherlock's direct question. ‘I shall not betray her confidence, Sherlock. And I will not tolerate your insolence.’

‘Forgive me, my lord. My inquiry arises not from insolence but an enduring desire to learn about my past. I must ask you something else.’ He waited for Gregory’s permission before speaking. ‘I have only spoken of my past to one other person.’

‘John.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Sir Ailric and Lady Rowena were not my birth parents.’

‘What!’

‘There was a critical reason my birth parents could not be married in Britain. Sir Ailric also never revealed the identity of my real father because he was married to another woman and had a child with her, and Sir Ailric did not wish to drive a wedge between them. He and Lady Rowena adopted me and arranged for my birth mother stay with us.’ He looked down at the carpet. ‘Sir Gregory, I believe you might know my real father.’

‘Sherlock, I was in the Holy Land when you were born.’

‘But you were present when my father first met my mother!’

Gregory’s eyebrows shot up.

‘In France. In the court of Phillip Augustus.’

Gregory sat in stunned silence while Sherlock recounted the tale of his birth as told to him by his mother, of his mixed Saracen and British parentage. Gregory’s eyes widened and his back straightened more with each new revelation. Unware that he had moved during the retelling, he found himself standing before Sherlock.

Sherlock was still speaking. ‘My mother’s name was- ’,

‘Samaarah’, Gregory interrupted. He was ashen, as if he had seen a ghost. ‘Her husband called her Samaa, his Heaven.’

Sherlock’s eyes flew up, lashes fluttering in time with his disbelieving, stumbling words. ‘H- how- how do you know that?’

Gregory’s eyes welled. He could not speak.

‘My lord, how do you know that?’ Sherlock begged. ‘How _can_ you?’

‘Because I am he!’ Gregory cried out.

‘No. No, that is not possible! That would mean-’

‘That would mean you are my son, Sherlock!’ Gregory took a step towards Sherlock and grabbed his arm.

‘No!’ Sherlock shouted. The shock was too great. ‘Unhand me, my lord.’

‘Sherlock, please!’

‘No!’ Sherlock shook his head repeatedly. He thrust his hands into his hair, clutching his curls. ‘If you are my father, my mother came to you in Cyprus. Why would you marry someone else? Why would you leave us? You never tried to find your son!’

‘Because I did not _know_ I had a son!’

Sherlock turned a withering gaze at Gregory.

Gregory forcibly calmed his voice. ‘Samaa did not tell me about you, and Ailric did not, either. Please, believe me, Sherlock.’

Sherlock was unmoved.

‘Saracen and Briton. The Church would have us killed! But we loved each other so much that we married in a secret pagan ritual. I had to leave for Cyprus almost immediately and by the time she joined me there, my father had arranged a betrothal to Theo’s mother. We gave up our happiness to satisfy societal customs. She urged me to marry and returned to Damascus. We would never see each other again but we knew we would live in each other’s hearts. To this day, Samaa lives in mine.’

Sherlock was watching him, his lips twisted. ‘Why would they not tell you about me?’

Gregory had been wondering the same thing. He thought for a moment. Then, ‘I think I understand why… you were safe and happy with Ailric and Rowena. Samaa would not have wanted either of us to be unhappy. She knew I would not be able to explain a motherless child to my wife, especially one born of a Saracen. But Ailric would be able to give you a good, honourable life. And he has.’

Sherlock turned away from him.

'Please, Sherlock’, he beseeched the distrusting young man, ‘how could I ever abandon you, my son?’

‘Stop this, please! Do not call me your son!’

‘Sherlock, you _are_ my son’, he pleaded. ‘Samaa is my wife. I loved her dearly and still do. But our union was doomed. Do you not see?’

‘My mother is dead’, Sherlock stated flatly.

‘No! Oh, Lord! No!’

‘I went to Damascus to be with her. She was very ill. I buried her in accordance with the Saracen tradition.’

‘Oh, forgive me, Samaa!’ Gregory cried and sank into his chair. He covered his face with his hands and wept silently.

Sherlock’s own eyes welled. He had desperately sought his birth father and now he stood before that very man who wept for his dead wife. For Sherlock’s mother.

‘Sir Gregory’, he started tentatively.

Gregory looked up.

‘She loved you very much. Right until the end.’

The fire blazed in the hearth, rudely loud in the otherwise deathly silent library. Gregory mourned his dead wife with soundless sobs. It was a long time before he had collected himself and his tears had abated.

He reached out a hand to Sherlock. ‘Will you not call me Father?’

Sherlock took a step back and wrapped his arms around himself. He could not meet Gregory’s gaze. Gregory lowered his hand, his fingers slowly recoiling into a fist of suffering. He did not know if he would ever make peace with his past but now he spoke quiet, anguished words to the future that stood looking at him with anger and hurt and… expectation.

‘We have both known so much loss, Sherlock. But today you have gained a father and a brother, and I have gained another son. Theo has always wanted an older brother. He will love you dearly, just as I will. Will you not have us as your family?’

Sherlock’s head was still lowered but he looked at Gregory through glistening lashes. He had lost his mother. Then John. Then Sir Ailric and Lady Rowena. The cycle of bereavement gnawed at his soul and the desperation of wanting to belong to a family again was overwhelming. Still, there was one last thing.

‘Sir Ailric’, he said in a hushed voice, ‘named me for my father's father.’

‘Cedric?’ Gregory asked, naming Ailric’s father.

Sherlock’s walls shattered. He knew then that Gregory would never attempt to take Ailric's place in his life. He knelt before Gregory and shook his head. ‘William.’

‘My father’s name’, Gregory whispered. ‘Oh Sherlock, let me hold you, my son!’

Sherlock leaned forward and found himself caught in the tight, loving embrace of his birth father. His own arms came up and closed around the man’s broad back. They sobbed together, father and son. Reunited in this most miraculous of ways. Unknown to each other, they both silently thanked John.

When they finally pulled apart, it was only because Theo had called out to Sir Gregory. He stood at the door with John, gaping at them, mouth open in shock.

Sherlock and Gregory broke into a trembling laugh, the joyous sound inconsistent with their still leaking eyes. Sherlock’s eyes flitted to John with a mixture of exultation and gratitude. And something else altogether.

John nodded once. His throat choked. He had never seen such pure happiness on Sherlock’s face. The sight of his luminous smile took John's breath away. He had not thought it possible, but his love for Sherlock grew even more in that moment. The ache was too great. He tore his gaze away.

Gregory held out a hand to his younger son. ‘Theo my boy, come to me.’

Theo’s steps were hesitant. Wary.

‘You have a brother, Theo’, said Gregory, his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Theo’s eyes grew wider.

‘Sherlock is your brother.’

Stupefied, Theo slumped into the empty chair beside his father and listened wordlessly, breathlessly, as Gregory told him everything.

‘You loved someone before Mother?’ Theo asked with a sweet, sad pout.

‘I did. But I loved your mother too, Theo, and I always will. Do you forgive me for keeping this from you?’

Theo did not answer. He pointedly ignored Sherlock and kept his gaze fixed on Gregory.

'I would like Sherlock to stay with us. Will you accept him into our family?

Still looking at his father, Theo asked, ‘Does this mean I have to share you with him?’

‘Yes’, Gregory said firmly, just as Sherlock said, equally firmly, ‘No.’

Theo lifted his head to look at Sherlock who had walked on his knees to kneel before him.

‘Theo, I will only stay if you want me to.’

Theo bit his lower lip. He knew Gregory and John were both watching him expectantly. ‘Do you want to stay?’ he asked.

‘I do’, Sherlock answered truthfully.

Shame and guilt flashed over Theo's face. ‘And if I do not want you to?’ he asked, not looking at Sherlock. His fingers were digging into his palms.

Gregory and John flinched as one, but Sherlock remained calm. He understood Theo’s objections.

‘Then I will leave’, he said, his voice neutral.

The easy acquiescence took Theo by surprise. ‘Where will you go?’ he asked softly, his eyes wide. His innate empathy was shining through.

‘I- I do not know’, Sherlock answered honestly.

‘Where is your home?’

‘My home was Huntingdon. Then it was Sherwood.’

‘Was?’

‘I cannot go back. But I will find somewhere to call home.’

‘Oh. Can you go with Uncle John to Northumberland?’

Sherlock gave a nervous laugh and his eyes shot up to John and back. ‘Your uncle might be very cross with you for unilaterally making plans for him.’

‘But … if you stay here…’

Sherlock smiled. 'This is your home, and will remain your home.' He felt a pang of fondness for his half-brother and, surprisingly, pride that he was headstrong. Like Sherlock.

'All of this is most unexpected', said Theo. 'Until a little while ago, my family was my father.'

'It is unexpected for me too', Sherlock said softly. He did not add that until a little while ago, he had no family.

Then Theo’s lower lip pushed out again and Sherlock melted even more. They gazed at each other for a fraught minute. Theo's silence began to feel final. Sherlock patted his brother's hand and started to rise to his feet but Theo grabbed his arm.

‘I have always wanted an older brother’, Theo mumbled. He dropped his hand to his lap. 'It appears you might be available.' He gave Sherlock a shy, hopeful smile.

Sherlock went back on his knees before Theo. ‘I am’, he offered, turning his palms up before Theo. ‘If you will have me.’

Theo slipped his hands over Sherlock’s. ‘I would like that’, he smiled.

Gregory’s eyes welled. He walked over to John. ‘My sons’, he said, watching the young men as they embraced falteringly at first, then hard. He blinked away the tears that threatened never to stop. ‘Thank you, John. You saved him. You brought him to me.’

John embraced Gregory. His heart overflowed with gladness for his friend.

Gregory pulled away but still held John’s shoulders. ‘He is everything you said he was.’

John cringed. ‘Forgive me, Gregory. I did not know who he was. I will never again- ’

Gregory laughed. ‘Hush, John. You seem to have forgotten what I said to you that day. As long as he is still your happiness- ’

John's smile was stoic when he said, ‘You seem to have forgotten that I am no longer his.’


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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>  A big thank you to all the lovely people who've been following this story. Your feedback keeps me going!   
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> _**Ayako, EllieSaxon, Iamthebookwyrm, JuJuBee** (in alphabetical order) - this one goes out to you. It's crazy wonderful that you take the time to comment on every chapter! There's nothing more thrilling than getting an AO3 notification that you've left a comment. THANK YOU.  <3 Hope you like this one too! _

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Sherlock and Theo stayed up most of the night, talking. Gregory did not insist that they turn in for he knew the brothers would have much to discuss. He himself spent most of the night speaking with John.

John had been seen to be overpowered by the outlaw Robin Hood and his thus far unblemished reputation as a warrior had suffered after the encounter. He had left Nottingham in relative ignominy, purportedly to return to Northumberland. But John’s standing meant nothing to him, because Sherlock was safe.

The following morning, Sherlock, Theo and the Merry Men set out on horses to explore the countryside and towns of Sussex County. Will had shaved his face clean to put his past as an outlaw behind him. He lamented the loss of his beard until he caught Theo’s admiring appraisal of the sharp lines of his face.

Theo and Will seemed to have discovered numerous topics of mutual interest because they parted regularly from the rest of the group to engage in deep discussions that, apparently, required liberal amounts of physical contact. As a concerned older brother, Sherlock set off in search of them whenever they disappeared into opportunely located groves, laughing when they shooed him away with faces flushed and hands scrambling to pull their clothes back on or up.

In the evening, Sussex Castle was alive with activity such as it had not seen since the passing of Theo’s mother. The five young men waited in the garden behind the Great Hall whilst inside, servants bustled about, preparing sumptuous meals to celebrate the reunion of Sir Gregory’s family. 

Shortly after sunset, a gong was sounded and they assembled in the Great Hall. Will, Theo, Alan and Much seated themselves on either side of a long table and began to hungrily survey the tender meats, crisp breads and fruity mead that were on offer but Sherlock stayed standing, waiting, until John and his father entered.

Their eyes met and Sherlock gave a tight nod. Then he sat next to Alan. John, as Duke, sat at the head of the table. Gregory, as Earl of Sussex, took his place at the opposite end.

Mealtime passed in reflective silence for John. His gaze swept over the table. Will, Theo and Much were engaging in jolly conversation and hearty laughter. Alan and Sherlock were having a quiet discussion. Alan’s head dipped towards Sherlock, as if sharing with him a thought he did not wish to reach other ears. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s forearm which rested on the table by his plate. Sherlock did not move his arm away but his eyes shot up to steal a glance at John. John caught Gregory watching him and looked away. 

Later, the Merry Men thanked Gregory for his hospitality. Much and Will headed up to their assigned bed chambers on the first floor. Alan did not wish to retire just yet and stepped out into the gardens.

Sherlock was standing by the tall doors leading out to the garden when John and Gregory stepped up to him.

Gregory clasped Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘A chamber has been prepared for you on the second floor. It is the last door on the left.’

‘Thank you’, said Sherlock.

‘Thank your brother’, Gregory smiled. ‘The arrangements are all his doing.’

John cleared his throat. Sherlock saw his fists clench and unclench.

‘If you will excuse me’, said John, ‘I should like to take a walk in the gardens before retiring.’

Sherlock immediately stepped aside.

‘Gregory.’

‘John.’

‘I wish you a pleasant night, Sherlock.’

‘I wish you a pleasant night as well, Your Grace.’

Their all too brief exchange was already at an end. John pulled in his lips between his teeth, paused a moment and then stepped out through the doors of the Great Hall into the gardens.

Gregory waited until John was out of earshot. Then he said, ‘Sherlock, my boy, I hope you are happy.’

‘I have a family again, a father, a brother. How could I not be happy?’

‘Alan is a charming young man’, said Gregory with a knowing smile.

Sherlock’s cheeks turned a furious red. ‘Father, I- how did you-?’

Gregory’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘I observed.’ He placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Sherlock… there is nothing more important to me than your happiness. And _whoever_ makes you happy has my blessing.’

Sherlock bit his lower lip hard, weighing how much he should reveal to his father. Then, ‘It is… not Alan.’

Gregory’s lips tipped up in a slow smile of understanding. ‘I know that too’, he said. ‘But he does not. Perhaps you should tell him. He has a right to know.’

Sherlock could not be certain that his father meant Alan. His eyebrows disappeared under his curls.

‘You are a wise boy, Sherlock. You will know what to do.’ Gregory tenderly cupped his son’s face in his hands and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Go to bed now.’

Unsettled by this exchange, Sherlock went up to his chamber. His father had given him his explicit approval. Yet there was a hollow feeling in his stomach.

The windows were open and a delicate curtain flapped in the gentle breeze. Behind the curtain was an enclosed bath chamber with a large tub in which warm scented water lapped languidly. Clean white towels were placed on a wooden stool.

The bed chamber itself was large and accommodated a wide and very inviting bed; a sheet of crimson red was spread tight over the mattress, with two large pillows placed by the ornate headboard. Months of sleeping on the forest floor were forgotten as Sherlock imagined sinking into the welcoming softness. Two pairs of nightclothes were neatly folded and placed on the sheets. Two pairs of pantofles were placed at the foot of the bed.

Each wall held a sconce in which a single torch burned, illuminating the chamber in mellow golden light. The table on one side of the bed held a pitcher of water alongside two goblets. He espied a tiny vial of viscous liquid discreetly tucked behind the pitcher. On the other table was a neat pile of small towels. There was no mistaking the activities for which the chamber had been prepared. _Theo._ He felt an outpouring of affection for his thoughtful brother, although Theo might have been mistaken about whom Sherlock wanted in his bed. To return the favour, he resolved to arrange for Will and Theo to make a week-long trip together, _alone_ , to a faraway town.

Sherlock walked over to the stained glass windows and gazed out at the beautifully landscaped grounds at the far end of which was a tranquil lake. Beyond the gates of the castle lay a large, dense grove. At regular intervals, the light from the garden torches glinted off a golden weave. John’s hair.

He watched John walk leisurely through the garden. Once in a while, John bent down to admire the beautiful blossoms that lined the garden in a vibrant burst of pinks and reds and blues. Squatting before a small flowering plant, he picked a dark violet bloom from it; his fingers caressed its petals as though they were something precious. He held it to his heart as he rose to his feet.

Sherlock saw John’s head jerk to the right, as if he were being hailed. He swallowed. Alan approached John in the garden. They spoke for a few minutes. John patted Alan’s shoulder. Then Alan nodded and headed back through the gardens into the Great Hall. John, however, took a torch from the garden and walked out, past the lake, and disappeared into the woods.

Presently, the door to Sherlock’s bed chamber opened. Alan stood framed in the doorway. They both gawked at each other. Alan was surprised. Sherlock was not.

‘Forgive me’, said Alan. ‘I was told to come here...by Sir John.’

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. ‘I shall have a bathe’, he said. He reached for the pitcher, poured water into a goblet and quaffed it in a single gulp. Then he disappeared into the bath chamber. He emerged a short while later, scrubbed clean, his hair clumped in damp curls, a large white towel looped around his waist.

Not a word was exchanged while Sherlock pulled on his nightclothes. He tucked his feet into a pair of pantofles. ‘You may sleep here’, he said, stepping around Alan to leave.

‘And where will you sleep?’

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then, not responding to Alan’s question, ‘I will see you on the morrow.’

Leaving his bemused friend behind, Sherlock hurried down the stairs and through the garden, grabbed a torch on his way out, passed the lake and stopped only when he stood at the periphery of the grove. There was no clear path through the thicket but John had to have gone through there. He was right-handed and would have a natural tendency to turn right. Sherlock swept his gaze in that direction. _There!_

Thin branches had broken off and fibre from John’s cape had caught on thorns when he brushed past them. On the ground was a trail of footprints in the moist soil. Light from the stars alternated with shadow, dancing across Sherlock’s form as he followed John’s tracks. He pushed apart supple, leafy branches that sprung back and smacked his shoulders as he made his way a few furlongs into the woods to arrive at a clearing in the middle of which a small fire crackled.

John sat by the fire and held in his hands the violet flower he had picked from the garden. A small pile of kindling wood sat beside him.

Sherlock announced his presence by clearing his throat. Then he asked, ‘What about the flower is so fascinating?’

When John looked up, there was no surprise on his face.

‘You knew I would come.’ 

John carefully placed the flower on the ground in front of him but said nothing.

‘Do you wish to be alone?’

John only sighed heavily in response. Sherlock assumed that to be _No_ and sat down on the other side of the fire. John pulled a twig from the pile and drew patterns in the moist mud. Sherlock cast furtive glances in his direction through the gaps in the flapping tongues of orange and yellow.

‘You came in search of me. You saved me. Again.’

Still John was silent. Sherlock grew impatient.

‘In return, I was… unjustifiably unkind to you.’ The words were strangled, as if the memory caused him pain.

John looked up at him, taken aback by his admission. ‘Yes. You were.’

The calm concurrence was unexpected. ‘Then why were you kind to me?’

John sighed. ‘At the time, there was nothing more important than your safety. And you were not entirely unjustified.’

Sherlock dropped his head. ‘I have not thanked you- or apologised.’

‘Neither gratitude nor apology is necessary.’

The air felt stifling with everything that was still unsaid.

‘I have a family again’, said Sherlock. His voice was soft, incredulous. ‘A father. A brother.’

John felt a thawing inside him. ‘And they love you. Theo is a wonderful boy. Kind and loving. Your father is my closest friend. The best man I know.’

‘He returns that sentiment.’

John smiled. He leaned forward and tossed a few sticks of tinder at the flames. The hungry fire brightened. Embers sparked into the darkness.

‘Will you stay here?’ Sherlock asked. Hopeful. ‘In Sussex?’

John slowly shook his head. ‘I leave for Northumberland tomorrow.’

‘What about Nottingham and the Sheriff?’

John smirked. ‘The Sheriff’s men will comb Sherwood Forest for Robin Hood and give up after a while because he does not exist anymore.’ He looked right at Sherlock. ‘Does he?’

‘He does not.’

‘Good.’

‘You could have gone to Northumberland directly.’

John nodded.

‘Did you come to see me?’ Sherlock asked, heartbeat quickening in expectation of a confession from John.

‘Yes.’

Now Sherlock’s heartbeat thundered. A nervous tongue came out to lick his dry lips. He needed more. ‘Why?’

The deep blue gaze was amused. ‘You had my sword.’

Crushed by John’s rebuff, Sherlock dropped his eyes. He took a deep breath, audible over the crackle of the fire. ‘Theo prepared a lavish chamber for me.’

John shot him an oblique look. ‘Was it not satisfactory?’

‘It was most agreeable’, Sherlock ground out.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘You sent Alan there.’

‘Yes. Which is why you should return.’

Sherlock flinched, as though his face had been struck. ‘Do you… wish me to leave?’

John’s gaze glittered across the fire. ‘I am …’, _torn_ , he thought, ‘undecided’, he said.

‘It- it is not what you think.’

Hurt stung behind John’s eyes. A fissure had developed in his restraint. ‘There is no reason to conceal your association on my account.’

‘There is no association to conceal.’

‘Do not take me for a fool’, said John. He could say no more because the thought caused too much pain.

‘Alan behaved as he did because he is loyal and I asked him to.’

‘Why would you?’

‘I…’, Sherlock swallowed. ‘I did not wish you to pity me after you had made your position clear... I did what I could to not appear… unattached’, Sherlock revealed guilelessly. ‘A fool’s conceit.’

‘It is not, if it made me pray, instead, for the horrors of war.’

‘Why would it?’ Sherlock demanded bitterly.

Now John was cross. ‘Did you not read my letter to you?’

‘I read it  _every_ day’, Sherlock said, pulling it out from a pocket in his tunic. ‘I  _hate_ it.’

'I hated having to write it’, John said, his lips twisted in a rictus of pain.

‘Yet you did!’ Sherlock seethed, glaring at him across the fire.

John jerked his head away.

‘You wrote that I am the light in your life and without me you only had darkness! Was that a lie?’

‘No.’

John’s monosyllabic response enraged Sherlock. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. ‘If that was how you truly felt, how could you leave? How dark is your life now?’

John looked right at Sherlock. ‘Darker than the pits of Hell.’

Sherlock’s hands fell to the ground, palms facing up, one hand still clutching the hateful note. ‘What else could I have said or done’, he pleaded, helpless, ‘to convince you of the truth of my words?’

‘Nothing.’

‘There has to be _something_!’

‘Stop this, Sherlock.’

‘I shall, if you answer one last question’, Sherlock sniffed, frustrated. ‘Why did you come to Huntingdon?’  

‘I-’

Sherlock waited.

‘I wanted to- ’, John stopped. ‘It is nothing.’

‘Why did you come?’ Sherlock demanded, his voice taut.

‘You know why.’

‘I cannot presume to know _anything_ with you, my lord. Your words say one thing, but your actions say something else. Therefore, I wish to hear you speak your mind. Do I not deserve that much?’

‘I came to ensure that you were safe’, John lied. ‘I saw you safe with your parents, and happy with Alan. I knew I had done the right thing.’ 

Sherlock’s eyes blazed at John. His face was drawn, jaws clenched. ‘It would seem you seek to reassure yourself, Your Grace’, he bit out, ‘not me.’ 

John turned his face away, unable to hold that direct gaze. The hush that followed made him hope that Sherlock had ceased to question him, but he was wrong.

‘Was that the only reason you came?’ The question was soft. Vulnerable.

John’s resolve cracked under Sherlock’s insistence for the truth. ‘No’, he admitted.

Leaves rustled in the gentle breeze as the silence stretched out between them.

‘What other reason could you have had to see me again?’ 

John’s resolve shattered. He confessed.

‘I wondered if you might wish to... associate with me again, but your answer was rather unequivocal.’

Sherlock looked anguished but said nothing. His head jerked away. John drew his gaze over Sherlock’s profile through the fluttering yellow flames, embers sparkling like fireflies in the still night.

A murmur across the bright heat. ‘I said I would wait for you.’ Sherlock’s lips trembled. ‘I...I still wait for you.’

He turned his head slowly and John gaped at him, fearful of misconstruing his words.

‘I am...’, Sherlock stopped, unsure about how best to provide the clarification he thought John needed to know. It came to him a moment later. ‘I am as you left me.’

 _As you left me. As you left me._ John understood. He sat still. Stunned. A selfish relief coursed over him. The fire continued to burn, twigs snapping and cracking hot and loud.

‘It is not for lack of opportunity’, Sherlock hastily added, a peevish frown appearing between his brows.

The flash flood of relief was chased away by guilt. Sherlock had denied himself the affections that any man or woman with a beating heart would fain have offered him. Only because Sherlock was waiting for him. John’s tongue was loosened by the intoxication of knowing that he had not lost Sherlock.

‘I tell myself over and over that leaving you in Acre was the right thing to do. But even then I knew that I was irrevocably destroying the only real happiness I had ever known. And worse, I was heartlessly, _unforgivably_ hurting the one for whom I cared most in all the world. The one person who is dearest to me, above all others. It is a moment I regret every day.’

Sherlock’s cheek twitched in a sour smirk. ‘Your Grace has said so much, yet so little. You hide behind your words.’

The observation stung. John had just laid his heart out before Sherlock and been mocked for it. An equally bitter expression spread over his face. ‘If prolixity is my failing’, he snapped, ‘perhaps you might educate me on how best to speak.’

‘I cannot offer you eloquence, Your Grace. Only a plain, ordinary truth.’ 

‘Then I shall hear your truth’, John retorted.

Sherlock’s eyes closed and John stopped breathing until they opened again and met his anxious gaze. 

John’s heartbeat thundered in his ears like the unrelenting beat of a bass drum while he waited. The seemingly eternal pause was fraught, until Sherlock finally spoke his truth.

‘I love you.’

Their gazes locked while the sights and sounds of the woods receded into the background. Sherlock searched John’s face for his answer but John could do no more than gape at him, stunned, his face revealing nothing of the turmoil that churned inside him. Sherlock dropped his eyes.

John slowly straightened his back. _Sherlock loved him._ That one blistering thought burned away all other tangential notions and brought with it a maddening delirium that gushed through John and stole his breath. His beautiful Sherlock, his courageous beloved sat staring at the fire, his lashes fluttering nervously after his confession. If he were within reach, John would simply take him in his arms and kiss every bit of milky skin he could reach.

Heat roiled inside him, hotter than the fire burning between them. His tongue came out to lick over his flushed lips. Half-lidded eyes raked darkly over Sherlock’s quivering body, hunched and hugging his knees to his body. A luminous presence in the black woods, a source of such immense happiness to John yet so fragile while he waited for John’s response. It was cruel, he knew, but he wanted a moment more to torment this young man, _his_ young man, who had just offered him everything.

A husky question fell from John’s wet, smirking lips. ‘You are… unattached, then?’ He leaned back on his hands, arms locked at the elbows. His overjoyed confidence bordered on arrogance while he waited for a superfluous affirmation from the flustered young man who still gazed into the fire, his chin tilted up.

But if he thought he could predict Sherlock’s response, he could not have been more mistaken. Sherlock was always astonishing and once more, he surprised John. Dropping his head slightly, he looked at John through thick lashes. His feline irises flashed like dark gemstones in the firelight.

‘Am I?’ he countered in a rough voice.

It would be John’s declaration to make.

Soundless delight bubbled inside of John and made all his sorrows a thing of the past. His head fell back and he looked up at the stars, a wide, open-mouthed grin spreading on his face.

His awareness of their surroundings was suddenly intensified. The moon glowed in the dark sky like a milky sun, painting the trees and the tall grass with its eerie silver light. His ears were filled with the song of the nightingale, the chirping of crickets, the loud crackle and hiss of the fire, sounds of the frolicking wild that his sadness had drowned out. Joy, such as he had not known since that last night in Acre, lingered at the edge of a quiet, incredulous breath.

‘No’, John said. ‘You are not.’ He rose to his feet and walked over to Sherlock. He held out a hand and Sherlock took it, standing up to face John.

Their hands dropped to their sides and they stood like that, not touching, not speaking, just content to draw their eyes over each other’s faces, recreating memories of features and expressions and emotions. Their quiet breaths misted in the cold air and mingled in a puff of white vapour in the space between them. John’s eyes fell to Sherlock’s lips. The pink flesh parted.

‘May I touch you?’ Sherlock asked, his fingers hovering over John’s cheek.

John’s breathing faltered. ‘You may do whatever you wish with me. I am yours.’

A shadow of bitterness ghosted over Sherlock’s features. The wound inside him left by John’s desertion in Acre throbbed. ‘For how long this time?’

John’s voice shook only slightly. ‘Until you ask me to leave. Or I die.’

He took his letter from Sherlock’s hand and threw it in the fire. They watched the parchment turn black and curl at the edges as the flames slowly consumed it and consigned it to oblivion.

He reached up to embrace Sherlock’s back but Sherlock made a small sound of hesitation and stopped him. Large hands gingerly cupped John’s face, scarcely touching his skin.

‘I have not the strength to survive another- abandonment...’, he said in a tremulous voice. He swallowed. ‘I have suffered your absence more deeply than you can imagine.’

John covered Sherlock’s hands with his. He pressed his cheek into the warmth of his beloved’s palm. His expression was solemn, all the lightness chased away by the need to make Sherlock understand that he was not alone. ‘Every day without you is a day I spend in my own personal Hell.’

Sherlock's lashes fluttered down to his cheeks. ‘Your words make me hope, yet I fear you…toy with me.’

John’s hand moved to curve behind Sherlock’s neck. His fingers brushed the soft curls there. ‘Look at me, Sherlock.’

He waited until the green eyes lifted to hold his own. He placed his other hand flat over Sherlock’s chest, feeling the strong beat under his palm.

‘Like a prize fool, I left you in Acre. That was the first time I lost you. When I saw you again in Huntingdon, you were with another man. That was the second time, but still, I could live the rest of my years in the knowledge that you were safe and happy. Then I was told you were dead! Do you know how the soul withers when you lose the one you love? Three times? Never before had I wished for death myself.’ He blinked to clear his suddenly blurry vision.‘So do not imagine for a moment’, he said thickly, ‘that I was unmoved by our estrangement.’

Sherlock’s eyes darkened with conviction. His face was gradually transformed by trembling exultation into a smile of pure, blinding joy, and John realised that he, too, was smiling helplessly.

A deep flush spread over Sherlock’s cheeks. ‘So many, many words', he tutted, brushing the edge of John’s mouth with his fingers. ‘Tell me, Your Grace’, Sherlock whispered, ‘what must I do to hear _my_ words from your lips?’

Elation rose inside John, warm and bright like the morning sun. He moved his head and pressed a kiss to the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. ‘You might call me by my name, as you did when we were happy together.’

A swallow. A shiver of breath. Then a whisper. ‘John.’

At the sound of his name, spoken with quiet desperation by this most beloved voice, John’s breath left him in a sob. ‘I love you’, he gasped. ‘I love you, Sherlock. More than my life.’ 

‘Do not leave me, John.’

‘Never again’, John whispered. ‘Let me kiss you, my love, and show you how I long for you, how dearly I love you.’

Any remaining words floated away on the wind and their warm mouths joined across the cool divide.


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

_‘Do not leave me again, John.’_

_‘Never again’, John whispered. ‘Let me kiss you, my love, and show you how I long for you, how dearly I love you.’_

_Any remaining words floated away on the wind and their warm mouths joined across the cool divide._

\----------

Kiss after kiss fell over eyes and cheeks and lips and necks. Each caress burned, and then healed. The need to touch was overwhelming. Their fingers dug into their shoulders, bodies pressed up against each other. Tongues and hips moved in an unconscious simulation of the union they both craved. It was only a matter of time.

John was acutely aware of the clothing that separated their skin. There was too much of it.

‘Sherlock…’, he gasped and pulled away from him, wanting to do more, so much more. But even the momentary sundering was too much to bear; his mouth again latched onto Sherlock’s neck and sucked a bruise into the pale skin.

‘John, please…’, Sherlock begged. His breath shivered in John’s ear.

John cleaved himself from Sherlock. ‘Please what?’ he panted. ‘Tell me what you want.’

‘I- I want… everything.’

John made a choked sound of desire. ‘How should I interpret that, Sherlock?’ He needed to hear Sherlock ask for it.

Sherlock’s plump lower lip disappeared between his teeth, then slipped back out, wet. ‘There is only one way to interpret that.’

‘I want to hear you say it.’ It was almost a plea.

‘I wish to be… intimate. With you.’

The unambiguous demand sent heat spilling over John. ‘Take your clothes off’, he growled.

Sherlock took a step back and lifted his hands to the placket of his nightshirt. From behind him, the fire silhouetted his lithe body through the thin fabric. John’s throat went dry. He licked his lips, eyes fixed on the long fingers curled around the opening in Sherlock’s shirt.

‘Take your clothes off, Sherlock.’ It was a veiled warning.

Sherlock was not cowed. ‘Or?’

John’s voice was rough, like an iron chain dragged over gravel. ‘Or I shall tear them off, throw you on the ground and make you see stars on earth.’

Sherlock’s eyes turned darker than the night. He was breathing hard and swallowed repeatedly. But John’s threat was not having the desired effect because Sherlock was still clothed. He had not been menacing enough.

‘Then I shall drag you back to Sussex Castle dressed only in your skin.’ John’s face was ascetic. His mouth was tight, jaws clenched. He waited for Sherlock to comply.

Sherlock bit his lower lip hard. His breath shivered, because he recognised John’s agitation as feral need bubbling under his skin, a volcano about to erupt. It terrified him to imagine being swept away on the boiling river of John’s desire. But he laughed softly when a shudder vibrated through John’s body. It was a teasing sound, and triumphant because, in that moment, he held power over John, and was determined to savour it. John let him, only because he knew Sherlock would soon be lying under him, limp and sated, once John had satisfied himself.

With agonising slowness, Sherlock pulled his nightshirt above his head, the gauzy fabric rising slowly like a curtain unveiling his magnificent flesh.  John’s hands clenched into fists. Otherwise he would have grabbed Sherlock and ripped his shirt off. This provocative revelation of the taut muscles in Sherlock’s stomach, the lovely curl of his navel, the gentle rise and fall of his chest was a pleasure John would gladly forfeit right now for the warm feeling of all that flesh under his hands and his mouth. But he was determined to outplay Sherlock at his own game.

The nightshirt was caught in Sherlock’s arms, held above his head when Sherlock stopped and fixed his gaze on John. John’s ravenous eyes dragged over his lean torso – nipples pulled up with the action, the subtle flare from his narrow waist to the broad sweep of his chest and shoulders, the wispy hair under his arms, the planes and length of his sleek musculature.

The flames grew excited in the cool breeze and tongues of bright yellow and orange licked over the pale flesh with flickering strokes of light and shade. John was suddenly, irrationally jealous of the fire. He moved between Sherlock and the fire, casting a shadow over his beautiful lover, leaving just a diffused golden glow from behind him to illuminate Sherlock’s flesh.

Sherlock licked his lips and gave him a smile of such sultry desire that John’s hands unfurled and reached out to cover Sherlock’s chest. The game meant nothing anymore because dusky peaks pressed hard into John’s rough palms. He moved one hand to cup the curve of Sherlock’s ribs and covered the nipple with his mouth. His other hand kneaded the tight flesh of Sherlock’s chest on the other side. Sherlock uttered a ragged sound of yearning.

‘Do not make me wait, Sherlock’, he begged, lips pressed against his lover’s flesh. He bit lightly on the nipple.

Sherlock groaned and dragged his shirt off. With shaking fingers, he pulled at the drawstring of his loose trousers. John slid his forehead down Sherlock’s chest. The fabric was pooled at Sherlock’s feet, revealing his glorious arousal standing between them. Breathing became painful.

John’s body felt leaden. He sank to his knees and, without ceremony, took Sherlock in his mouth. He felt replete as soon as his lips closed around the hard, heated flesh. Filled with an elemental desire to please, John began to use his mouth on Sherlock.

Employing all his experience with the many nameless men he had bedded, he tormented his lover now. He recalled how keenly Sherlock had responded to this act in Acre. Now Sherlock’s cries were muted and John wanted to hear him. Needed to hear him cry out John’s name here, in the woods, where no one would hear them.

Sherlock’s pulse hammered inside his mouth. His own pulse hammered in his throat. John bobbed his head slowly, tongue and palate and cheeks still wrapped tight around Sherlock. With each slide, he felt thin, hot silk slide over the iron shaft it covered. A continuous quiver ran through Sherlock’s body. John’s hands crept around Sherlock’s legs to grasp the backs of his bare thighs.

Still pleasuring Sherlock, he ran his hands up to cover the luscious backside, clenched with tension. John squeezed the smooth flesh, gasping around Sherlock’s cock when the flesh yielded under his hands. Sherlock moaned and John sucked harder. The moan became a cry, John’s name uttered by his needy lover.

John pulled off Sherlock and looked up at him. Holding Sherlock’s wild gaze, he ran his cheek against the slick bulb. It grew wetter with more than just John’s saliva. John’s tongue snaked out to dip into the tip and taste the salty pearl beading there. He licked along Sherlock’s length. Throughout this performance, they never looked away from each other.

Mad with want, Sherlock’s fists clenched at his sides; his eyes rolled back into his head. ‘Please…’, he begged. 

‘Please what?’

‘I need…’

John rose to his feet. ‘What do you need, Sherlock?’

It was the growl of a warrior and it rumbled right through to Sherlock’s core. Sherlock dropped his head, trying to bury his face in John’s neck. John held him off.

‘No.’ He would not allow Sherlock to hide. Not now. ‘Look at me and tell me what you need.’

Sherlock wrapped himself around John and pushed his face against John’s neck. His hand found John’s and drew it down behind his hips, holding it there. John’s fingers traced the dusky heat in between but he did not go any further. He could not, for Sherlock’s tense flesh was clenched. His other hand was curved around Sherlock’s back, fingers spread flat between his shoulder blades.

His wrist still held tight in Sherlock’s grasp, John kissed the dip below Sherlock’s collar bone. Sherlock’s flesh slackened a little. His hand pushed down on John’s wrist and John’s thumb crept inside.

‘Is this what you need, Sherlock?’ he asked, his thumb pressing down on a particular, hidden spot that gave only one meaning to his question. The flesh there was unexpectedly slippery. He licked his lips and pressed once more.

Sherlock’s quickening breaths puffed hotly over John’s neck. John’s arm warmly encircled Sherlock’s waist and his hand moved back to where it had been. The tight gap closed hotly around his fingers, holding him in. John’s thumb traced lazy circles over Sherlock’s secret apex. His other hand moved from Sherlock’s back to his trembling hips. If thinking was a struggle, breathing was impossible, and not only because the long arms around him had tightened.

The sylvan breeze parted gently into two curved streams around them, for their bodies were pressed against each other in one long unbroken line. Sherlock showed no signs of disengaging from John.

‘Sherlock’, John whispered. ‘If we are to do what you want, I am wearing too many clothes.’

Selfishly, Sherlock withdrew his body. The fingers John pulled away from Sherlock’s flesh glistened. He held that hand up between them, his eyebrow cocked.

‘I…uh, I- ’, Sherlock stuttered.

‘You…?’ He needed to hear the words explicitly spoken by Sherlock.

There was cognition in Sherlock’s eyes. ‘I prepared myself’, he panted. His lashes lowered. Desire flickered in the gleaming eyes.

John’s skin burned with want. ‘You prepared yourself’, he managed to say. ‘For me.’ It was a claim of ownership.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to belong to John. It was an easy admission. ‘For you’, he said.

John drew in both lips between his teeth, gaze flicking over Sherlock’s naked form. Giving silent thanks that he was still wearing his royal livery, he detached his cape and spread it over the ground. ‘On your front’, he commanded.

The power had shifted back to John but this was a struggle Sherlock would gladly lose. Obediently, he lowered himself onto the cape, his long, pale form laid out for John’s enjoyment. His arms were strained backwards, wrists crossed over the small of his back, as if bound by an invisible rope. His face rested on his cheek so that he could watch John undress. Then his eyes closed because John had lain down on the robe, naked body pressed to his.

Pushing up onto an elbow, John slipped his other hand into the soft curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his nape. A kiss to the soft skin behind Sherlock’s ear evoked a full-body tremor. And a moan.

His fingers traced Sherlock’s wrists which were still crossed. His thoughts sped back to that night in the Emir’s tent. That night when he had first laid eyes on the mysterious youth, when he had touched that beautiful body and found completion over it. The night that changed him forever.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he rasped, his voice shaking. He stroked Sherlock’s upturned palms.

Sherlock’s fingers curled, trying to clasp John’s hand but John moved his hand away. ‘That night’, Sherlock confessed, ‘through the shame and helplessness, I wanted you to take me.’

John kissed the skin between his shoulder blades. ‘That night, through my shame and guilt, I hoped that one day I would take you.’

He kissed the back of Sherlock’s arm, ran his hand down the dip in Sherlock’s spine and pushed Sherlock’s wrists apart. The svelte arms fell to his sides.

‘I want you to come with me to Castle Northumberland’, he murmured into the soft skin behind Sherlock’s ear. ‘There, in my bed chamber, I shall lay you down on my bed, spread you open and tether you to the bedposts by your wrists and your ankles. And then I will give you what you need.’ He kissed Sherlock’s neck and bit on it lightly. ‘I will slowly take you apart until you forget your own name, and then I will make you whole again’, he promised. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek, the gesture more tender than erotic. ‘But tonight… tonight I want- I _need_ to _love_ you with my body. Do you want that?’

‘John’, Sherlock begged. Unashamed to declare his own need.

John lifted himself onto his knees and swung one leg over Sherlock’s hips. Then he seated himself on the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, his arousal settling into the dark, shallow dampness between Sherlock’s buttocks. Leaning forward, he ran his hands up Sherlock’s back, lowering himself in the process and splaying his chest against Sherlock. His flat belly pressed down on his cock, pushing it into Sherlock’s cleft. Reflexively, John’s hips took up a rocking motion, rubbing his hardness between the slick globes, the tip catching on the furled entrance before tripping forward, then dragging back over it. Again. And again.

Sherlock’s body bucked over a sob. His face turned and he blindly offered his mouth. John took it. They kissed. A manic push and pull of tongue and lips. The closeness was not enough. John pressed into Sherlock as though he wished to meld with him.

Sherlock wanted the same closeness. ‘Please, John… I need….’

John bit into the muscle running down Sherlock’s side.

‘John’, Sherlock breathed. ‘John.’ A prayer.

‘I need you, Sherlock. I need to be inside you.’

Sherlock attempted to speak but his vocabulary was one word. John. He repeated that word like it was a lifeline.

John thrust hard against Sherlock, rubbing over his cleft. A pounding rhythm set in. Instinctive and wild, as it had been that first night in the Emir’s tent. They had been strangers that night. Two wanderers whom Fate had thrown into violent intimacy. The realisation that he lay over the young man he had been forced to ravage that fateful day hurt John. Would they want each other if they had met under different circumstances? Suppose they had never met? An absurd fear speared into John. His body felt heavy and slowed. 

Sherlock shifted under him and suddenly, John was flipped over to his back and covered by Sherlock. Looking up into wide, dark eyes, he saw that Sherlock understood his fears. He could not speak because his mouth had been claimed. Every nibble on his lips was a confession of Sherlock’s desire, every lick over his tongue an assurance that he was loved, every kiss on his neck a declaration of Sherlock’s devotion.

The words whispered over his lips were a statement and a pledge. ‘I cannot imagine a time when I will not love you.’

‘I love you’, John moaned and Sherlock barely had a moment to kiss John again before he was overturned onto his back, John burrowing between his legs, pushing his thighs apart. Their cocks brushed against each other. Sherlock’s back arched high. John’s mouth fell over his chest and sucked on a nipple.

They fumbled with each other, inelegant in their passion. Long limbs bumped and tangled, separated, then bumped again in a desperately clumsy attempt to find the position that afforded the most nearness. Lips searched for lips, then breath mingled wetly with breath in open-mouthed kisses. They groaned and grappled until Sherlock’s knees were close to his ears and John was leaning over him, the tip of his cock prodding at Sherlock’s entrance.

John pressed ahead, demanding admittance. He could not move past the tightness. Sherlock was stubborn. Everywhere. John was idiotically beguiled.

Smiling, because he could not help it, he kissed Sherlock’s forehead. His eyes, his neck. A lick to his sensitive earlobe. Then, ‘Let me in’, he whispered.

He heard a whimper, felt Sherlock’s apprehension in the shudder that rippled through his body. John lifted his head. ‘I will not hurt you, Sherlock.’

A slight relaxation in the tight ring told him that Sherlock trusted him. He pushed forward. In a small explosion, his swollen tip slipped past the resistance. He sighed and held there, running his hand down Sherlock’s body to grasp his hips.

Sherlock’s cheek pressed into John’s other forearm, his moist breaths puffing against John’s skin. He opened around him some more and John slid in further. Their bodies went still but their foreheads touched and for the next few moments, the only movement was between their mouths that kissed with an aching vulnerability. John’s hips shifted tentatively. Sherlock winced. John stilled at once. They kissed again. Unhurried, because they had time.

Sherlock’s hands roamed over John’s back, tracing his scars with his fingertips. John lifted his head and looked down at Sherlock.

‘I must have you.’

Sherlock’s hips rolled. John glided in another inch. Sherlock moved again. John slipped further inside. He waited, holding his hips still, letting Sherlock drive their coupling.

Sherlock was panting now, his nervous gasps stretching into languorous sighs. The pain of penetration had given way to shards of pleasure. John’s body, his eyes, his touch, his kisses and whispers had awakened new sensations in him. Sherlock’s eyes were half-open but unseeing, hips rocking harder and harder as the tightness between his legs slackened and, finally, he opened for John. Fully. His body began to draw John in. Sucked him inside until, with a long, hard slide, John was all the way in. 

John was inside Sherlock and Sherlock wanted him there. What had been a forbidden fantasy before was now rapturous reality. The solid fact of Sherlock under him, soft here and hard there, warm everywhere, whimpering, chanting John’s name, pleading with him, lost in his own pleasure. John’s hips pulled back, then jerked forward. Once. Sherlock came back to his present and focused on John. Their smiles were sweet and tender, their kisses sweeter still.

‘Forgive me, Sherlock. I was a fool.’ It was an oddly-timed confession, but John had to say it in this moment of utmost honesty.

‘I forgive you’, Sherlock whispered. He pulled John’s head down for a kiss. Then he pushed his hands into John’s hair and lightly yanked his head up.

John’s lips parted in a snarl.

‘Now’, Sherlock smiled shyly, ‘make me see stars on earth.’

John was only too pleased to comply. A sinuous, rhythmic undulation of their bodies took over as they chased their pleasure. One push was hard, the next tender. Raw and rough, their hips moved in that fundamental joining they had both sought from the first moment John had touched Sherlock in the Emir’s tent.

Sherlock’s fingers on John’s back squeezed his flesh and scratched a trail down his skin. His flesh around John’s cock tightened. Tautness and heat everywhere. It was too much. His virgin flesh could not hold back. His body jerked and with a loud cry, he surrendered to the rapture rising inside him. Release spilled onto his stomach and pooled in his navel. His beautiful eyes were closed, his head thrown back. John fell over him and sucked on the long, pale neck stretched tight as he quivered through the beginnings of his own pleasure. Over the heartbeat thumping in his ears, he heard a distant urging and, as bidden by his lover, he hurtled over the edge and spent his release inside Sherlock. His cock throbbed and pulsed, clasped tightly within Sherlock’s channel. He needed to speak but his throat was choked as he tumbled into blinding ecstasy and exhilarating darkness.

When he finally found his voice again, John had to tell him. ‘It has _never_ been like this for me’, he murmured. His eyes glistened with the truth of his words. ‘You. Only you.’

‘Only you’, Sherlock returned.

The kisses happened because it was so right. Sweet, soft touches of lips. Promises made over more kisses. Fingers threading, skin sliding over skin, warm, safe.

‘I love you’, Sherlock whispered.

‘And I love you.’

They lay like that on their sides, touching and kissing, until the moon started to set and over on the other side, the sky turned an inky orange as the sun hovered below the horizon. Small woodland birds stirred in anticipation of the golden dawn, chirping prettily in the quiet.

John cupped Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I shall not be separated from you again.’

Sherlock’s finger traced over John’s eyebrow. ‘How are we to stay together?’

‘I might have a way.’

‘Tell me…’

‘I grow weary of the life of a warrior. My political duties are also less engaging now.’ He sighed. ‘But the healing arts call to me and I- ’, John sighed. ‘I have always wanted to establish a hospital in Northumberland that is independent of the Church. A sanatorium where anyone in need, rich or poor, would receive the help they require and could offer as much as they can afford in recompense. I would employ the finest physicians in the county and… uh, also offer my own services.’

‘You would make an excellent physician, John’, Sherlock smiled, his eyes glittering in the firelight. ‘Not only because of your skills but also because you have a kind and generous heart.’ He pressed forward and kissed John.

‘Will you come with me?’

‘I shall. But how would we explain my continued presence there?’

‘I- uh, I shall need a personal apprentice. In fact’, John said, one side of his lips tipping up slowly, ‘I am in desperate need of a _particular_ apprentice.’

Sherlock’s shy, trembling smile was enough to melt John’s heart.

‘I have knowledge of Western healing methods. You have studied Eastern medicine. Together we would be able to do much good.’

‘I still have much to learn.’

‘Sufyan gave me several of his own medical texts when we left Sha’ab. As my apprentice, you will have the opportunity to study those texts and apply your new knowledge. Would you like that?’

Sherlock pursed his lips, as if considering John’s offer carefully. ‘What are the terms of my internship?’

John laughed. ‘Your presence will be required in the hospital every day of the week except Sunday. In exchange, you will receive a comfortable weekly stipend and your own bed chamber, with an attached bath, in Castle Northumberland itself.’

‘And?’

‘And unrestricted access to any part of the castle… and its master, whenever you wish.’

Sherlock considered John’s offer. ‘My own bed chamber…’

‘Of course, I shall not permit you to sleep there.’

Sherlock assumed an affronted expression. ‘Where, then? Am I to lie beside the horses?’

‘No…’, John smiled. ‘You will have the bed chamber that adjoins mine.’ He rolled Sherlock onto his back and leaned over him. ‘And every night, when the servants have retired and the castle is silent’, he murmured against the soft parted lips, ‘you will open the door connecting our rooms and join the Duke of Northumberland in his bed where he will make certain that you receive all the perks of employment he cannot offer you in public.’

A moment’s pause was followed by a kiss. Then another. ‘Very well, I accept.’

‘Good. I believe you should kiss me again for this offer of employment.’

‘I should, for that reason’, Sherlock agreed with a laugh, ‘and many, many others. In fact, I do not think I should ever stop kissing you.’

‘You are a wise boy. I am making that the first rule of your apprenticeship.’

He pulled Sherlock close to cover his mouth with his and show him just how desperately he needed his apprentice.

‘Are you in agreement?’ he panted when he lifted his mouth.

Sherlock nodded. ‘I am. As physician and apprentice, we are not likely to invite speculation. I am eager to begin that life. When our present dangers are averted.’

‘Your father and I will ensure that your friends are safe, too.’ He ran a finger over Sherlock’s forehead and pushed away a lovely curl.

Sherlock drew John’s hand down to his lips and kissed it softly. ‘Will seems to have found a reason to make Sussex his home.’

‘Indeed’, John agreed with a smile. ‘Much and Alan could live in Northumberland if they want. My castle could use a minstrel.’

Sherlock laughed. ‘I do think you should hear Alan play his lyre, and sing, before you extend an invitation.’

John laughed with him and they kissed.

‘I love you, Sherlock.’

‘I love you’ Sherlock whispered. He blinked away the wetness forming in his eyes.

John pulled him into an embrace. They enjoyed each other’s bodies with touches and kisses in the quiet night until the fire died.

‘We should return’, John said. ‘Your father must be concerned about his newly-found son’s whereabouts.’

‘I am relieved to still have my clothes’, Sherlock smiled.

‘Only until we are back in my bed’, John laughed and kissed him.

They dressed in silence. Their hands brushed as they walked back to Sussex Castle in silence. Pushing the large front doors open, they stepped into the Great Hall.

It was dark until a figure walked in, holding a torch. It was Gregory. He watched them both with an inscrutable stare. They did not dare breathe.

‘You both appear drained’, Gregory observed, his eyes narrowed.

 _Drained._ Sherlock and John suppressed a smile but Gregory remained grim.

‘It will be morning soon. You should rest. I shall instruct the servants not to rouse you.’ He held his stern expression a moment longer, then his face lit up. ‘I believe I should let Alan know he has exclusive use of Sherlock’s bed chamber.’


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This is my longest story to date and it isn't complete! :)
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains references to, but no detailed descriptions of, animal sacrifice for the purpose of plot development.

John stirred and smiled, his gold-tipped lashes parting just enough to take in the ethereal source of the warmth seeping into his skin – his beautiful naked young lover stretched out beside him, sunlight and shade striping the planes and curves of the pale, velvet flesh. The lover who had occupied his dreams was now his companion in reality. Languorous thoughts strayed through a sublime haze to the events of the recent past.

A week after that night in the woods, John and Sherlock had arrived in Castle Northumberland to begin their life together. It had been a wistful parting between father and son so soon after they had found each other, but Gregory accepted that his son belonged with John, that John would keep him safe at the cost of his own life.

Since their arrival in Castle Northumberland, every night they had lain together in John’s bed. It had only been a fortnight, but Sherlock had become a part of John’s life as naturally as if he had always belonged there.

After nightfall, when he had slowly tantalised Sherlock and reduced him to chanting wild, incoherent pleas, John would repeatedly enter his lover’s writhing body and stay there until he felt they had claimed each other’s spirits.

Some nights, Sherlock would let him know in his own oblique, fluttering way that he wanted it, and John would tether him to his bedposts and place a blindfold over those green eyes, closing the windows to the soul of his beautiful lover. Sherlock would whimper in anticipation and pull on the ropes that bound his wrists when, sightless and denied the use of his arms, he sensed John subtly transform from gentle lover to implacable captor preparing to torment the defenceless youth with his wicked, hungry mouth and clever fingers and possess him in the most primitive way known to man. Eventually, when Sherlock was little more than a sobbing tangle of sweat, hot skin and laboured breath, John would push his shaking thighs up against his chest and press inside. Hard.

Sherlock would unravel under the unremitting cadence of his warrior’s punitive thrusts, the delightfully unkind strokes of his calloused hand over Sherlock’s hardness. When they were close, John would untie the blindfold to look into his lover’s eyes again and together they would ascend to the crest and plunge over the edge into blinding pleasure, John’s harsh pants warming Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock’s own gasping moans gradually abating to quiet sighs of contentment. Later, once John had untied Sherlock's bonds and kissed the bruises on his wrists, they would drape their arms and legs around one another while the darkness stole their blissful words of adoration and they yielded to the pull of slumber.

Now John shifted. Sherlock gave a drowsy snuffle and moved closer, pressing his face into John’s chest. John smiled and dropped a kiss on the sweet-smelling curls that tickled his nose. In instinctive response, Sherlock’s lips kissed his chest and a sleepy leg pushed its way between John’s thighs, the light dusting of hair leaving a delicious tingle in its wake as skin slid over skin. His arm rested in the dip of John’s waist. John was certain his heart would burst with happiness.

The men who had killed Sherlock’s parents and wanted him dead were still at large. He was still in danger. But for this serene moment, they could lie like this, cocooning each other, quiet and happy, while outside Castle Northumberland slowly awoke to greet the new day. John slowly sank back into pleasant slumber.

\----------------------

A loud, insistent knock broke through the languid silence. John sat up with a start.

‘Uncle John!’

Theo’s call from outside the door reminded him that the boy was in Northumberland on a visit. Sometimes it felt as if Theo had never left. The thought brought a fond smile to his lips. Another thought occurred and his smile promptly widened – Theo had brought along an inseparable companion. Will Scarlett. The large man always lingered in close proximity to Theo, a guardian angel with a laugh like thunder.

With Will and Sherlock here, Much and Alan had little reason to remain in Sussex and had accompanied them here. John had not objected. Sherlock appreciated having his brother and friends close. Gregory’s castle, however, had suddenly felt very empty again but he had stayed in Sussex to carry out his duties as Earl.

‘Wake up, Uncle John!’

John pulled on his nightclothes and opened the door. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked the harried youth.

Naughty Theo tried to sneak a peek at his brother on John’s bed but John blocked the doorway with his body.

‘Theo’, he warned, cocking an eyebrow.

Theo gave him a sheepish grin. ‘I was not peeping!’ he protested feebly.

John shook his head. ‘What is it that requires you to crow louder than the town rooster?’

‘Friar Tuck is here. He wishes to speak with you urgently.’

John started and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Tuck? What brings him here?’  

‘He would not say. He waits in the study. Will you come?’

John blinked a few times to chase the sleep away. ‘Yes- yes, of course. I shall make myself presentable and join you there.’

When Theo had turned, John shut the door and walked to the bed. He leaned over Sherlock and kissed his cheek. Sherlock gave an irate groan and swatted at him. John chuckled and kissed his shoulder, ducking swiftly to dodge a second smack from Sherlock.

‘Sleep, my love’, he murmured into the warm skin.

Sherlock grunted and buried his face in his pillow.

John set about his ablutions and a short while later, fully alert and attired in his royal robes, he entered his study and locked eyes with Tuck who had been pacing the floor. The rotund friar’s face was red with exertion and fear.

‘Tuck, how are you, my friend? It is good to see you. What brings you here?’

‘John- I, I am not well.’

‘That is quite evident. What is it that worries you so?’

‘It- it is the Abbey, John. There are things happening there, unspeakable things.’ Tuck wiped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

‘You need a drink, Tuck’, John said. ‘Sit. Catch your breath. Tell me everything.’

Tuck remained standing but eagerly accepted the goblet John held out and quaffed the wine in a single, long gulp. His hand trembled when he held the cup out for a refill. This time, he sipped the liquid.

‘Sit, Tuck’, John insisted, gesturing to a comfortable armchair. ‘Whatever it is, we will tackle it together.’

Tuck sank heavily into the welcoming cushions.

‘Tell me, then, what is happening in the Abbey?’

‘Sacrifices!’ Tuck blurted.

‘Sacrifices?’ John repeated, aghast. He leaned forward.

‘Animals slaughtered in a place of _worship_!’ Tuck whispered with a shudder. ‘What kind of pagan madness could have infected a place of Christian faith? I saw the Abbot, Father Franklin, leave the scene of a sacrifice. And now…,’ he stopped, his petrified eyes fixed on the carpet at his feet.

Before he could continue, a knock sounded on the door.

‘Come in!’ John called out.

The door opened and Sherlock came in. He was freshly bathed and dressed in a long-sleeved black tunic and snug black trousers tucked into knee-high boots, accentuating the length and shape of his legs. A leather belt was pulled tight around his lean waist. John felt an amused admiration for his cock’s valiant, and moderately successful, attempt to stand after the exhausting activities of the previous night.

‘Is everything alright, my lord?’ Sherlock asked him, a smirk flashing over his lovely face. ‘Oh, Friar Tuck’, he remarked.

Tuck momentarily forgot the horrors that had brought him here. ‘I do not believe we have met’, he said, a quizzical look furrowing his brow as he studied the young man’s face.

‘We met not too long ago, but you would not have recognised me’, said Sherlock, shutting the door behind him.

‘At the time, you knew him as William Donninghut’, John elaborated.

‘Y- You? You are Robin Hood!’

‘I was’, said Sherlock, patiently. ‘But no longer. My name is Sherlock. Sir Ailric of Huntingdon was my father.’ They had decided not to reveal Gregory’s relation to Sherlock to keep his Saracen lineage a secret.

‘Oh. I- uh, pardon me’, Tuck huffed. ‘I am- quite, quite disconcerted as it is and meeting you is not quite what I expected.’

‘I did not mean to interrupt. Pardon _me_.’

‘Sherlock, I would like you to stay’, said John. ‘Tuck, anything you say to me you can say to Sherlock.’

‘You trust him?’

‘I have trusted him with my life’, said John, looking at Sherlock.

Tuck did not miss the look that passed between the two men. ‘Very well’, he said. ‘I have been seeing and hearing things…, utterly frightful, gruesome things.’

Tuck’s eyes took on a faraway look; John and Sherlock waited while the Friar calmed his nerves enough to speak.

‘There is talk of raising the Lord, of bringing him into this world.’

‘The Second Advent?’ John asked.

‘Why would that be a frightful thing?’ Sherlock added.

Tuck shook his head with agitation. ‘I do not know! Why would the merciful _Christ_ require the sacrifice of animals?’ He gulped his wine down. ‘The abbey has been taken over by strange soldiers. They belong to an Order I do not recognise.’

‘Can you describe their insignia?’ Sherlock asked.

John observed a subtle stiffening of Sherlock’s spine. His body near vibrated with concentration.

‘It is a… a cross with a … star above it.’

‘The Church of the Shining One’, said John.

Sherlock only hummed. He sat down in a chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and steepled his hands under his chin. ‘Do you know what animals were sacrificed?’ he asked. There was a cold, clinical edge to his question.

‘Sherlock…,’ John chided gently, not wishing to upset the already disturbed friar. He was also a little troubled that Sherlock appeared undisturbed by the ghastly happenings at the abbey.

Sherlock directed his response to the friar. ‘Do you object to my questions, Brother Tuck?’

A weary sigh. Then Tuck answered. ‘A fox, a wolf and a lamb.’

‘When did these sacrifices take place?’

‘Just before dawn.’

‘All on the same day?’

‘No…’

Sherlock flashed an edgy glance at Tuck, waiting. When he decided Tuck was taking too long, Sherlock offered the answer. ‘The first sacrifice occurred twenty-four days ago, the next, fifteen days ago and the most recent sacrifice occurred six days ago. Is that correct?’

‘I- uh, I believe…,’ Tuck stammered, trying to recall when exactly the animals had been sacrificed. ‘You are correct! The- uh, the fox was sacrificed first.’ He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘The wolf was next and finally the lamb. But- how could you have known that?’

‘Elementary’, Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing briefly, as if he were organising the information. Then he addressed Tuck again. ‘Can you describe the altar on which the animals were sacrificed?’

John was intrigued. ‘Why should that be important?’

Tuck had the same query but still he answered. ‘The altars, there are two, are made of black stone. But only one was used to slaughter the animals. These altars… they were specially installed about a moon ago. None but the Abbot may enter the large crypt that holds the altars.’

John cocked an eyebrow. ‘Then how could you have seen them?’

A wan smile. Then, ‘I am the abbey’s Keeper of Keys. It is my function to have keys made to locks in the abbey should they ever be lost. I discovered the hidden vault when I heard the dying yelps of the fox while it bled to death.’

Sherlock gleefully clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent!’ Noting the dismay on the faces of his audience, he cleared his throat and resumed a more sedate examination of the Friar. ‘Are there any other features of interest? Do the altars have inscriptions? Symbols of some kind?’

‘They are unmarked but for a single five-pointed star on each visible surface’, Tuck confirmed.

‘Inverted?’

‘Yes! How did you-?’

Sherlock interrupted. ‘Did you get close to these altars? Within a foot?’

‘Y-yes. One night, before the sacrifices… I stole into the chamber to look around…’

‘Well?’ Sherlock pressed, his voice sharp with impatience. ‘Anything else of significance?’ He abruptly rose to his feet and began pacing the study.

Tuck’s uncomprehending eyes followed his manic movements.

Throwing an exasperated look over his shoulder, Sherlock elaborated. ‘Did the cross around your neck behave strangely? The scabbard around your waist?’

‘Y-yes!’ Tuck gasped, astounded by the specificity of Sherlock’s question. ‘They were drawn away from my body towards the altars, as if by magic!’

‘Not magic’, Sherlock retorted. He took a deep breath and stopped in the middle of the chamber, turning to face John and Tuck.

John knew he had reached a conclusion. ‘What is it, Sherlock?’

John’s question was ignored. ‘The second altar will be used three days from today’, Sherlock asserted. ‘A young virgin will be sacrificed on that day.’

‘What?’ Tuck gasped. ‘How can you know that?’

‘The sky will turn red with the Blood Moon three days from today, the sixth day of the sixth month of the year. And the sum of the date is?’ he paused and looked from John to Tuck for the answer.

‘Six’, Tuck answered glumly.

Sherlock looked pleased with himself. ‘Exactly’, he said, a tight smile lifting the corners of his lips for a second. ‘Each sacrifice took place on a day when the sum of the date was six. Three sixes. The Number of the Beast. Those sacrifices were in preparation for the final ceremony. It is not Christ that the Abbot seeks to raise.’

John’s patience was running thin. ‘Sherlock! Cease this cryptic talk. Whom does the Abbot seek to raise if it is not Christ?’ he repeated.

Sherlock’s tone was grave. His eyes closed briefly. ‘The Antichrist’, he whispered.

Tuck’s jowls shuddered as he absorbed Sherlock’s declaration.

John, however, was harder to convince. ‘What! You are mad!’

‘Think, my lord! The Book of Revelation!’

Still baffled by Sherlock’s conclusions, John and Tuck could do no more than watch mutely as he continued to pace the study. His next words came in one long uninterrupted stream of agitated energy with nary a pause for breathing.

‘Lucifer is known as the Shining One, the Son of the Morning. The Morning Star! The sacrifices were made just before dawn, just before the rise of the Morning Star. Do you not see? They were offerings to Lucifer. Altars of polished black stone with inverted pentagrams carved into them. The symbol of the Antichrist. The altars are made of lodestone which draws metallic substances to it. That’s why the Friar’s cross and his scabbard, both made of steel, were drawn to the altars. According to Saracen lore, the energy inherent in the lodestone can be harnessed and made a servant of _Iblis_ , the Arabic name of Lucifer. Under a prescribed combination of blood sacrifices and spells, it can be used as a gateway between Earth and Hell!’ he gasped at last, ending with a flourish of his hands. ‘It is exquisitely simple!’

‘To you, perhaps’, John muttered.

Tuck swallowed. ‘Are you saying the Abbot belongs to the Church of the Shining One?’

‘Yes, he does. And he will try to raise the Dark Lord. Three days from today. One last sacrifice remains. That of a virgin.’ His eyes flicked over Tuck’s face. He saw the Friar’s throat jump. ‘They have already found a girl, have they not?’ he asked softly.

Tuck’s face fell but he nodded.

‘Can you describe her? Is she a peasant?’

‘No! No, this girl is most certainly of noble birth. She stands a head taller than I am, very slender. Her eyes are green as the greenest grass. Hair red as fire flows down her back in angry curls. She is fiercely beautiful. Majestic, despite her tender years’, he murmured.

Sherlock started, as if struck by another thought.

‘There- there is something else’, Tuck stuttered.

‘What _else_ can there be?’ asked an incredulous John.

‘The King participated in the sacrifices with the Abbot. The Sheriff of Nottingham was also present.’

John’s expression turned smug. ‘Of course!’ His eyes met Sherlock’s. ‘ _Ta’lab_ ’, he murmured. ‘The fox was the King’s sacrifice. The wolf for the Sheriff.’ He saw that Sherlock at once understood his reasoning but catching Tuck’s quizzical expression, he explained. ‘While in Nottingham, I observed that the Sheriff’s crest bore a two-headed wolf. The lamb was the Abbot’s offering, representing his function in the Abbey as the messenger of the Lamb of God.’

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with pride at John’s keen insight. ‘Indeed. These men appear to have formed a triumvirate of power. Or at least one that seeks the ultimate power. Over Church and State.’

‘But why would they need to kill a young girl?’

‘Because’, Sherlock explained, ‘it is said that only the life force flowing through virgin females is strong enough to tempt Lucifer to rise from his dark realm. I am quite certain the animals were all young, unbred females.’

‘I need your help to rescue the girl, John.’

John walked up to his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have it.’

Large brown eyes looked up at him, hope swimming in them. John looked at Sherlock.

‘We will rescue the girl’, Sherlock assured the Friar. ‘And I am sure Theo will not be denied his chance for excitement’, he chuckled in a low voice. ‘He has overheard everything, after all.’

Four long strides and he was by the door, yanking it open. Theo, who had been pressed up against the wood, stumbled in.

‘Sherlock!’ His cheeks turned a deep pink.

‘I was certain your ear would be stuck to the door by now, Theo. Where is Will?’ Sherlock asked, looking over his brother’s shoulder. He spotted the large man hovering by a pillar. ‘Will, we are taking Theo with us on an adventure. It will be dangerous. Shall I assume you will accompany us?’ he smiled.

‘That is a sound assumption’, said Will, a sheepish grin spreading over his chiselled features. ‘Much and Alan will also come’, he added, looking at the two youths loitering desultorily in the corridor.

‘Of course they will’, Sherlock agreed.

John had joined Sherlock at the door. ‘Good’, he said. ‘We will need all the help we can get. Theo, send word to your father that I request his presence in Titchfield, post haste. Will, would you instruct the grooms to ready the horses? We shall depart Northumberland within the hour.’


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

Later that evening, John, Sherlock and Tuck arrived in Titchfield, but separately. John and Tuck had taken a different path into the town in order to not appear associated with Sherlock. Alan and Much had trailed them and arrived an hour later. They took up a room at the Inn of the Seven Nymphs while Sherlock and John took two rooms at the Inn of the Black Arrow.

The next day, John had risen with the morning sun and proceeded to the Abbey under the pretext of paying his old friend a visit. He came up to the large wooden door at the west end of the abbey and rapped on it with the heavy iron door knocker. Presently, he heard the bolt sliding out of the lock behind the entrance and it slowly opened a fraction.

‘Yes? How may I help you?’ enquired a tall cleric. He was clothed in long dark robes that fell over his feet, and a hood was pulled over his head, lending his appearance the imprecision of a ghostly apparition hovering over the ground.

‘Good morning’, said John, with an affable smile. ‘I am Sir John Watson, a friend of Friar Tuck. I should like to speak with him, if he is able to see guests. I can return at another time if he is currently occupied.’

The monk studied John a moment longer than warranted by his amiable introduction. For his part, John thought the hermit’s eyes were distantly reminiscent of another’s but could not clearly envision the other man’s face. There was not much else to compare with John’s catalogue of acquaintances as most of the Abbot’s face was concealed behind a bristling moustache and beard and his hair was covered by the hood. John interpreted the abrupt jump in the tall man’s beard as a smirk.

‘Welcome to Titchfield Abbey’, the man finally said, stepping back to pull the large door ajar. It opened out into the narthex which led to the nave. ‘Come in.’

John stepped in and waited.

‘I am Father Franklin’, the man said, his tone and mien sepulchral although he held out his right hand.

John was considering what to do about the extended hand when he heard a voice call his name from behind him. Turning around, he saw Tuck framed in the doorway.

‘My dear Tuck!’ said John, feigning the enthusiasm of a man setting eyes on his friend after an extended period of time.

‘Father Abbot, I see you have met my friend, Sir John, Duke of Northumberland.’

John immediately knelt before the Abbot and kissed his ring. ‘Pardon me, Father. I was not aware I was addressing the Abbot of Titchfield Abbey.’

‘It is quite all right’, said the Abbot, looking down at John. ‘And you, Sir John, you did not care to mention that you are the Duke of Northumberland. You dress modestly for a royal, Your Grace.’

‘It is merely my desire to travel in relative anonymity that influences my attire, Father.’

The Abbot nodded dismissively and settled his piercing gaze on Tuck. ‘You did not inform me that you were expecting a guest, Tuck.’

‘The oversight is mine, Father Franklin. I arrived unannounced. If this is an imposition, I shall depart at once, for I would not wish Tuck to be faulted for my thoughtlessness.’

Another ephemeral smirk flashed over the mostly inscrutable face. ‘You need not leave. Tuck is here. You are here.’

‘Thank you, Father’, said Tuck, sounding very relieved.

They began walking along the nave, between two columns of pews. Their footfalls were loud on the stone floor, echoing against the walls in the empty hall.

‘Northumberland is a long way from Titchfield. What brings you to our humble monastery, Sir John? Are you lost?’

‘Spiritually I might be, Father Franklin’, said John with a smile. Then he shook his head. ‘No. Truly, I come here merely to renew my acquaintance with my friend’, he said. ‘I have granted myself a leave of absence from my duties to travel the land at leisure and… I realise this might sound absurd… find peace again.’

The Abbott looked at John for a moment. ‘Not absurd at all. Where were you first acquainted with Brother Tuck?’

There was an undertone of unfriendliness to the Abbot’s ostensibly pleasant inquiries but the slight furrow in John’s brow did not escape him.

Immediately, ‘Allow me my curiosity, Sir John. I only ask because we have so few visitors in the Abbey. And to have a Duke visit is a rare privilege.’

John smiled, but it was an uneasy expression. ‘I fought in the Third Crusade under the Order of the Knights Templar. It was in Cyprus that my path propitiously crossed that of Brother Tuck. After our first exchange, I was convinced that my calling was as a Hospitaller.’

‘I see. Will you be staying with us for a period of time?’

‘I had expected to depart Titchfield by nightfall but… if it would not put an undue strain on your kindness or your resources, I would welcome a few days’ respite in these serene surroundings.’

‘You may stay with us for a week. I am sure Tuck would be glad to make your stay comfortable. Tuck,’ he addressed the friar, ‘would you prepare our finest guest room in the west range for Sir John?’

‘Certainly, Father Franklin’, said Tuck with a brief bow.

‘Sir John, meals are served twice daily, at eleven in the morning and six thirty in the evening, in the refectory. If you are late, you do not get fed’, the Abbot added with a humourless chuckle. Impenetrable eyes flicked over the long scabbard holding Invaincu at John’s waist and the smaller scabbard, tucked into his belt, sheathing his poniard. ‘This is a place of worship, not warfare. While you are under this roof, you may leave your weapons in the sacristy.’

It was not a request but John’s acquiescence was not as prompt as the Abbott seemed to expect.

‘You have seen much bloodshed in the Holy Land. Lightening your body of your weapons will lighten your soul.’

This time John nodded, although he had no intention of parting with his weapons.

‘The Library is on the first level, at the top of these steps’, said the Abbot, looking to his right at a flight of stairs leading up to a hallway running east. ‘It is open to visitors during the day, between the hours of ten and six. You may spend as much time there as you wish. We are in possession of several rare tomes that might interest you.’

Then the Abbot paused.

‘Did you ever have the privilege of meeting the late King Richard?’

‘Many times. King Richard and I are- were’, he corrected himself, ‘in fact, second cousins.’

‘Hmm’, the Abbot observed. ‘Did you ever meet him in the Holy Land?’

An icicle of cold alarm prickled the skin of John’s nape. ‘No’, he lied. ‘King Richard and I were never in the same place at the same time.’

The Abbott nodded thoughtfully. ‘If your time on the battlefield has not diminished your faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, I would ask that you pray with us at Lauds and Vespers. I must mention that the Abbey is quite particular about restricting movement after sundown when the brothers begin to observe silence for the duration of the night. Congregation for any purpose thereafter, whether religious or social, is strongly discouraged. You may pray in your room, of course. From sunrise until sundown, however, you may explore any part of the Abbey to which you have access without a key.’ The smile that accompanied that last sanction carried no warmth.

A chill skittered down John’s spine, and not only because he knew of the Abbot’s participation in the animal sacrifices. ‘I am most grateful for your hospitality, Father Franklin. I shall need to go back into town for a short while but will return with my personal effects in the afternoon, well before Vespers.’

‘Very well, I shall leave you in Tuck’s capable hands. There are matters that demand my attention now but we shall speak again soon. I am interested to hear of your experiences in the Holy Land.’ With that, the Abbot turned around and ascended the stairs that led to the Library, his long robe sweeping the steps.

Tuck let out a soft gasp. ‘That was unexpected. I had hoped one of the other brothers might have let you in.’

‘Perhaps it is for the best that it was he who did. It makes _our_ encounter more innocuous. Although… there is something about him…’, John said, his voice trailing off.

‘Of course there is!’ Tuck hissed in a whisper that sounded like a shout in the silent nave. ‘You know he-!’

‘No!’ John interrupted him before he could say something untoward. ‘There is something else but I cannot put a finger on it. I am certain I have seen Father Franklin before.’

Tuck’s jowls juddered. ‘Where?’

John shook his head and blew out a frustrated breath. ‘I cannot recall. How long has he been the Abbot?’

‘King Charles appointed him to the post a few weeks before his coronation.’

‘Not long then. What is your impression of him?’

‘Since his appointment, he has spent very little time in Titchfield, certainly not long enough for any of us to form an opinion. He spends most of his time in London.’

‘With the King?’

‘With the King. He told us he even attended the coronation. Perhaps that is where you saw him.’

‘I would not forget a face that distinctive. There is something familiar about his voice as well. I would have remembered him. It will come to me. What happened to the previous Abbot?’

A pall of gloom settled over Tuck. ‘He left one day. He did not say where he was going or when he would return. He just never did return. There is-’, he stopped. ‘It is speculated that he might have been… dispatched. Permanently.’ Tuck sighed. ‘Come. Let us take a walk through the cloister.’

They left the nave and entered the cloister that ran in a rectangle around a large garth in the middle. Broad pillars of stone stood several metres apart and rose up to the ceiling where they extended into sweeping stone arches that buttressed the domical vaults in the roof covering the walkway. The garden shimmered in a burst of colour, greens and reds and pinks and whites, under the bright sun. The stone cover imparted a pleasant coolth to the arcade and a sense of tranquillity pervaded the air.

‘I can see why you choose to live here.’

‘Yes’, said Tuck thoughtfully. ‘When I returned from Acre, I was not myself. You recall the horrors we witnessed when tending to the wounded and the dead. A malaise lay upon my spirit. My soul needed healing. Titchfield Abbey was my sanctuary. A week after living here, it felt as if the vice-like grip that had squeezed my chest had finally released its hold. I could breathe again. I could live again. Yes,’ he smiled at John, ‘that is why I live here.’ But his smile dissolved into a frown of concern. ‘John…’

‘Do not worry, Tuck. It will be all right.’

Tuck nodded but the look of worry stayed. ‘Would you like to see my room?’

‘Do you not sleep in the dorter?’

Tuck smiled. ‘As Keeper of the Keys, I merit my own quarters.’

Behind closed doors in Tuck’s chamber, he held out three keys. ‘I cannot be seen outside the chamber after sundown.’ He clutched the largest key. ‘This opens the main doors through which you entered the Abbey. The vaults are underground, accessible through a door that lies beyond the necessarium’, he said, holding up the next smaller key. ‘This key opens that door. The girl is being held in a cell at the west end; it is opened by this key. She is guarded at all times by two soldiers. I do not know how you will get past them because they will be able to see anyone who approaches.’

‘Do you have access to the kitchen?’

‘I do.’

‘Good. Take this’, said John, pulling out a small bottle from a pocket in his tunic. ‘Make sure you pour the entire contents into this evening’s soup.’

‘What is it?’ Tuck asked, his voice a whisper. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Have no fear’, John smiled. ‘It is only a highly potent soporific which will induce at least six hours of dreamless sleep in anyone who imbibes it. There are no adverse effects beyond that.’

‘I should make sure I do not partake of the soup, then.’

‘I would, in fact, encourage you to indulge in a second helping. Sleeping past your fellow monks will only lend you greater credibility and bolster your innocence.’

‘What about you?’

‘I shall imbibe the opposite, a stimulant, as I must stay alert through the night’, said John. ‘I shall, however, make a suitable show of enjoying the soup.’

\----------------------------

Gregory, Theo and Will reached Titchfield later that morning, and took up rooms in the Inn of the Seven Nymphs.

Just after the noon hour, Sherlock was still in his room at the Inn of the Black Arrow. John had left the abbey and returned to Titchfield town. He was seated alone at a table in the centre of the tavern attached to the inn, a bowl of stew and a small plate with a piece of bread on it sitting before him, when Gregory entered. He was followed a few minutes later by Theo and Will. Gregory took a seat at John’s table while Theo and Will, at Gregory’s instance, occupied a table by a window, their backs to John and Gregory.

A fourth man entered a short while later and strode purposefully towards John.

‘Sir Mycroft!’ said John, rising to his feet to greet the Lord High Steward of Britain. Only, on this occasion, Mycroft’s attire gave no indication of his royal station. And he was alone. ‘What brings you here?’

He had not seen Mycroft since the tourney in Nottingham, yet it did not seem that long.

‘John’, said Mycroft, with a curt nod.

‘I shall give you privacy’, said Gregory, rising to take another table by the wall to put some distance between them.

‘You may stay, Sir Gregory’, said Mycroft. ‘I should like you to hear what I have to say.’

‘Very well, Sir Mycroft.’ Gregory sat back down.

‘You look like the Devil has stolen your soul’, said John, leaning towards the anxious man.

‘Then my appearance accurately reflects my condition, John.’

John held out a goblet to Mycroft who quaffed the contents and held it out for a refill. John poured him some more wine. Mycroft sighed.

‘What is it?’ John asked gently. ‘What ails you so?

Mycroft’s throat jumped. He stared into his goblet. ‘My ward has been taken from me. Under cover of night.’

John was surprised. ‘Your ward? I did not know you had a ward.’ He shot a glance at Gregory who appeared as flummoxed as he. He waited for Mycroft to continue.

‘Lady Marian, my niece, was left in my charge. But she was abducted a week ago. Purportedly by Robin Hood.’

John and Gregory stiffened as one. Just then, in the periphery of his vision, Gregory saw Sherlock appear at the top of the stairs.

‘If you will excuse me’, Gregory said, more abruptly than he would have liked, ‘we need more wine.’ He walked towards the barkeep, throwing Sherlock a warning glance as he passed the stairway.

But Sherlock had already started to descend the stairs, greeting him with a wide smile. ‘When did you arrive, Fa-’, Sherlock called out but froze in mid-sentence when Gregory silently mouthed ‘No’, and with a shift of his eyes indicated that he should look over the bannister.

Sherlock shot a sidelong glance in that direction and espied John sitting at a table, but he was not alone. With him sat Mycroft, who was now staring fixedly at Sherlock. 

John followed Mycroft’s line of sight and knew, at once, that he had heard Sherlock. ‘Mycroft,’ he said in an attempt to distract his companion, ‘I know very little of your family.’

Mycroft’s eyes returned to John and a shrewd smile played over his thin lips. ‘I have no wife and no children of my own, John. Any family beyond that is not known to many people in Britain’, he said. ‘It is as I wish it,’ he paused, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘given what happened to the other one.’

John nodded knowingly and decided not to press his friend.

‘Who is that?’ asked Mycroft, jerking his chin in the direction of Sherlock.

Gregory had returned with a new bottle of wine. Sherlock slowly climbed down the stairs and stopped beside their table. ‘Sir John, Sir Gregory’, said Sherlock, greeting his acquaintances. ‘Sir Mycroft’, he added with a courteous dip of his head.

Mycroft rose from his seat. His eyes were narrowed as he circled the young man, studying him. Then they widened in recognition.

‘Master William Donninghut’, he declared, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Or should I say Robin Hood? You had procured an outstanding disguise for the tourney.’

Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘You are most percipient, my lord.’

‘Your nom de guerre…, a tribute to your late father, I suppose?’

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Sherlock was impressed.

John and Gregory, on the other hand, were aghast.

‘Huntingdon’, Mycroft explained to them. ‘ _Donninghut_ is _Huntingdon_ with the letters rearranged.’

‘Sir Mycroft, might I ask how you arrived at that conclusion?’

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock’s self-assurance. ‘Robin Hood was born almost on the heels of Sir Ailric’s unfortunate passing. The murderers claimed that they had wiped out the Huntingdon clan but I have eyes and ears everywhere, young man, and they told me that Ailric’s boy was alive. I had heard of your remarkable skill with the bow and when I saw you in Nottingham, I had a suspicion. And you, John,’ he turned to the knight, ‘despite your best efforts to convince us otherwise, I knew you were helping the boy escape.’

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I am not trained in theatre.’

‘Oh, it was not your skills in drama that were lacking’, Mycroft clarified with a laugh. ‘But only a fool would believe that a warrior as mighty as you could be overpowered that easily.’

John appeared self-conscious but Sherlock was filled with pride for him. Mycroft, however, was not finished and turned his piercing gaze back to Sherlock.

‘You addressed Sir Gregory as Father.’ He did not wait for Sherlock’s confirmation. ‘But you are Ailric’s son. I find it quite… curious that you have secured a second pater so soon after being orphaned.’

Gregory drew himself up to his full height and looked Mycroft right in the eye. ‘Sir Ailric was his father and one of my closest friends. He is, therefore, like my son.’ He left it at that.

Mycroft studied Sherlock. His eyes flicked over his dark hair, his features, his physique. He turned to Gregory. ‘He is- oh!’

Dread arrowed down Gregory’s spine. ‘He is… _what_ , Sir Mycroft?’ he demanded.

‘One hears things, Sir Gregory’, said Mycroft hurriedly, disconcerted as though he were regretting his own blunder. ‘It is nothing, just baseless information.’ He trained his attention on John. ‘Why are you in Titchfield, John?’

This exchange had quickly devolved from an appeal for help into an unwelcome interrogation, but John calmed himself enough to answer, ‘Surely my reasons could not possibly be of any consequence to you, Mycroft, but I am here to call on my old friend, Friar Tuck, who is employed in the Lord’s service at Titchfield Abbey.’

‘Oh, yes! I remember him – the rather corpulent man of God who, to everyone’s surprise, was one of the three best archers in Nottingham,’ Mycroft sniggered, ‘despite missing the lesson on abstinence.’ He blithely ignored John’s rapidly souring expression. ‘I did notice that you recognised him. Why did you not greet him then?’

‘The tourney was not the time or place to renew an old association’, John bristled. ‘You are exceedingly well informed, Mycroft, to have found me here’, he commented cannily. ‘I cannot imagine that our meeting is simply happenstance.’

‘It is not. I called on you at Northumberland this morning but your servants informed me that you had departed for Titchfield yesterday. I rode here as fast as I could.’

‘I must say, Sir Mycroft,’ Gregory interjected, ‘that you exhibit none of the weariness one would expect in someone who has just spent nearly one hundred and fifty miles on horseback.’ His voice was cold and his expression equally frosty. The air crackled with palpable aggression. ‘However, it is hearting to see that your thirst for information affords you a temporary respite from the unfortunate reality that your ward has been abducted.’

Mycroft parried Gregory’s icy words with an indifferent shrug. ‘Not at all, Sir Gregory. It is, in fact, my deep concern for the safety of my ward that fuelled my energetic traversal of, as you so accurately calculated, nearly one hundred and fifty miles on horseback.’ He turned to John. ‘Marian is in danger, John. I seek your help. But covertly.’

‘Why covertly? You have the resources of the King at your disposal.’

‘I do but I shall not avail of them for I do not trust anyone in London. But Richard trusted you, and therefore, I do, too.’

‘You said your niece was _purportedly_ abducted by Robin Hood. Which means you suspect someone else. Who is it?’

‘I have spoken to you of them’, said Mycroft. ‘The Church of the Shining One.’

* * *

**Parts of a monastery / abbey:**

  * Narthex: Covered porch in front of the west doors
  * Nave: The main body of the church from the west end to the choir
  * Refectory: Dining hall
  * Sacristy: Safe storage for church valuables
  * Garth: garden enclosed within a quadrangular cloister.
  * ~~Matins and Evensong: Morning and evening prayer~~
  * Lauds and Vespers: Morning and evening prayer (Thank you, vaticancamoe71!)
  * Dorter: Shared dormitory / sleeping-hall for monks
  * Necessarium: Communal toilet



 

 


	25. Chapter 25

‘Sherlock, I want you to leave this inn as soon as you have changed your clothing. Gregory, I would ask that you leave the Inn of the Seven Nymphs for another inn, preferably not in Titchfield. And take Sherlock with you.’ He paused. ‘In fact, I want all of you, Theo and the boys, to take up rooms elsewhere.’

‘Why, John?’

Mycroft had left after he was sufficiently assured of John’s help to rescue his ward. John, however, had decided against revealing that they had uncovered the location of the Church of the Shining One.

‘I have a feeling that it is not safe for either of you. Mycroft was a little too interested in Sherlock.’

‘Perhaps he is simply a curious man’, said Sherlock. He did not seem perturbed by the exchange. ‘He was quite clever. I think you worry too much.’

That elicited an exasperated sigh. Then, ‘Sherlock, please, will you stay with your father?’

‘Very well’, said Sherlock, sounding bored, ‘if it will allay your concerns.’

‘It will. Now, about tonight.’

Gregory and Sherlock leaned closer.

‘Tuck has replicated the keys we need to get to the girl’s cell. I have given Tuck a potion that will ensure the monks are unconscious the entire night. But the girl is guarded by two soldiers. Should they not imbibe the soup tonight, we have to make provision for the possibility of being seen as we approach her cell.’

‘We will need to disguise ourselves’, said Sherlock.

‘Robes’, John said, reaching below the table and pulling up a soft burlap sack. ‘These are for you. We will also need some form of weapons’, said John. ‘Especially those that can be concealed in our robes and deployed from a distance. And easily retrieved with minimal effort and consequences.’

‘That precludes swords and longbows. Poniards, perhaps. Or even smaller knives’, said Gregory. ‘Sherlock?’

‘Knives cause bleeding. We need darts. Darts with poisoned tips.’

‘A capital idea’, Gregory smiled and clapped his son on the back. ‘You and I shall visit a fletcher and a cobbler in neighbouring Swanwick to fashion darts and slotted leather cuffs to hold them. John, could you conjure up more of that potion?’

‘No need. Here is an extra vial. Take it with you to Swanwick. Be at the abbey at midnight. The monastery should be in deep slumber by then. I will let you in.’

\-----------------

Dinner that evening passed uneventfully in the refectory. Tuck and John were alone at a small table away from the other monks. The Abbot, however, was conspicuously absent.

‘Where is Father Franklin?’ asked John.

‘I do not know’, Tuck responded in a whisper. ‘He did not say he would be absent. Perhaps he has returned to London.’

‘Perhaps’, John said, his voice trailing off.

‘What about tonight? Will they-?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh! I am worried, John.’

‘Do not fear. Have more soup. You will sleep better and worry less.’

\------------------

A few minutes before midnight, John donned the monk’s habit given to him by Tuck and pulled the hood over his head. He stole down to the front gates and unlocked the door, cringing with every squeak of metal. Slowly he pulled one gate open and was faced with two hooded figures.

‘Come’, he whispered to Sherlock and Gregory. Together they tiptoed past the reredorter and down the stairs, pausing on the last step. Beyond that, they would have to turn the corner into the corridor at the end of which was the girl’s cell.

John descended the last step and turned. The corridor was empty. He strode swiftly down the stone passage, looking into each cell he passed. Empty. He reached the cell where Tuck had said the girl was being held. It also was empty.

Gregory and Sherlock had followed him.

‘They have taken the girl elsewhere’, said John. ‘Someone knew we were coming.’

‘Who?’ Gregory whispered.

‘I do not know!’

‘Tuck?’

‘No! Tuck is a good man. I trust him.’

‘What about the transepts?’ Sherlock asked. ‘The King and the Sheriff must have their own personal altars.’

‘That is possible’, John agreed. ‘Let us hurry there.’

The three men rushed up the stairs, past the reredorter, the cloister and the library until they were in the nave. There they slowed and reached the hallway that ran between the north and south transepts.

‘I will search the southern transept’, said Sherlock. ‘Father, you and John search the north.’

‘All right’, Gregory said and disappeared with John into the transept to the north. Sherlock went in the opposite direction.

Large doors stood fifteen feet apart in the stone wall, concealing private altars behind them. Patrons’ crests hung on each door and the two men walked past several unfamiliar crests until they reached the end of the corridor. It extended to the left. John peeked around the corner and saw two soldiers outside a door. One solider was standing on guard, the other was seated on the floor apparently resting. He turned and walked towards them purposefully.

‘Halt!’ cried one soldier.

John made the sign of the cross. ‘Peace be with you, brother.’ _Why were they not unconscious?_ Then he noticed that only one soldier was alert. The other man lay in an insensate lump against the wall.

‘You must turn back at once’, the soldier said.

On the door hung a crest with a two-headed wolf. ‘I must speak with the girl’, he said assertively, taking a gamble that they were guarding the girl in the Sheriff’s altar. ‘The Abbot wishes to extract information from her and believes she will be more vulnerable to coercion if woken up abruptly.’

‘The Abbot has instructed us that no one is to speak with the girl.’

Inwardly, John deflated from the relief that his bluff had paid off. ‘It will not take long. Why does your fellow man rest while you fight sleep to keep guard? That is quite unfair.’

John’s seemingly compassionate inquiry had the desired effect. ‘He is a lazy son of a harlot. Eats and drinks like a king and then sleeps like one.’

‘Ah, I shall let the Abbot know of his dereliction. May I see the girl now?’

At once the soldier straightened. ‘You may not. I have strict orders to-’ He stopped, eyes snapping up at the sound of fabric rustling at the end of the corridor. ‘Who is it?’

Another hooded figure approached him, a monk holding something in one hand. John stepped to the side just as he heard a sharp hiss shoot past his ear. The horrified soldier lifted a hand to his neck and closed his fingers around the dart lodged in his flesh.

‘What have you done?’ he asked, horrified.

‘Nothing permanent’, said John, taking a step towards the man whose legs were already beginning to fold at the knees, wakefulness fading rapidly. ‘You will sleep like your friend here and wake in the morning. Hush’, he whispered and lowered the man to the ground. With care, he plucked the dart from the man’s neck and placed it in the pocket of his robe.

Gregory had reached him. John opened the door to the altar.

Against one wall was a tall cross with a statue of Jesus Christ. A stone shelf jutted out from the opposite wall and was being used as a bed by a sleeping girl. Her long red hair spilled in tendrils over the edge of the shelf. John touched her gently on the shoulder but she did not awaken. Reaching into his pocket again, he felt around and pulled out a vial. Popping open the cork, he held the bottle under her nose. Within seconds she snuffled and her eyes fluttered open. Her eyes grew round with shock and she was about to scream when John clamped a hand over her mouth. With the other, he pushed back his hood.

‘Fear not, we are here to rescue you.’

‘Let me go!’ she cried, pushing John away with greater strength than her slender frame suggested. There was no fear in her eyes, only astonishment.

‘Hush, child’, said Gregory. His paternal tone appeared to calm the girl. ‘If you shout, guards will come running and we will not be able to rescue you.’

‘Who are you?’ she asked. Her voice was quiet, courageous.

A fiery intelligence flashed in her dark green eyes. There was a beautiful majesty to her features, soft yet strong. Tuck was right. She was unmistakeably descended from nobility. John picked up a faint trace of a French accent.

‘I am Sir Gregory, this is Sir John. What is your name?’

‘Marian.’

Two pairs of eyebrows lifted simultaneously and the two men exchanged a quick look.

‘Lady Marian, we are friends of your uncle’, said John.

A slight frown clouded the girl’s face. She dropped her eyes.

‘Mycroft. He is searching for you.’

Marian’s eyes flew up. ‘You lie!’

‘We speak the truth. Your uncle came to us earlier today. He is very concerned for your safety.’

‘How can he? Uncle Mycroft is dead!’

A silence descended over the two men as they absorbed that pronouncement.

‘He died in Jerusalem. His body was brought to my mother and me to be buried in our family’s cemetery.’

‘That is not possible!’ John whispered to himself. Then, to Marian, ‘When was this?’

‘Over a year ago.’ She pulled back. ‘Who are you truly?’ she asked, wary now.

‘I am the Earl of Sussex’, said Gregory, ‘and Sir John is the Duke of Northumberland. He fought in the Crusades for King Richard. We were loyal to the Lionheart. Believe us, we will not harm you.’

‘How did you know to look for me here?’

‘We were told of your capture by a sympathetic Friar from the Abbey. When were you moved to this chamber?’

‘Last evening. At the Abbot’s command.’

While Gregory engaged Marian, John’s head swam with questions. But he reined in his galloping thoughts. Rescuing the girl was paramount. ‘Marian, wear my robe and accompany Gregory. He will take you to safety.’

‘And what of you, John?’ Gregory demanded.

‘If fortune favours us, we will remain undetected until you leave the Abbey with Marian. I will remain here to keep an eye on things until my planned stay of one week comes to an end. Marian’s absence is sure to be noted. If I were to disappear the same night, Tuck will come under suspicion.’

‘John…, you could be in danger if you remain.’

‘The longer we tarry, the greater the danger to us all. We have no time to waste.’

John handed Marian his robe and she donned it, pulling the hood low over her head, concealing her fiery hair.

‘Do you remember the way to the main gate?’ John asked Gregory.

‘I do.’

‘Good, take Marian and leave. I will go in search of Sherlock.’

Gregory clasped John’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. ‘Be safe, John.’ Then, to the girl, ‘Come, Marian. We must hurry.’

‘You have my gratitude, Sir John’, she murmured.

John nodded. ‘You must go now.’

Together, Gregory and Marian noiselessly hurried down the nave, pushed open the main gates and ran to the horses Sherlock and Gregory had tethered in a nearby copse. They had just crossed a grassy knoll when Marian’s hood flew off her head, revealing her striking hair and beautiful face.

‘Lady Marian!’ Gregory called in a loud whisper. ‘Your hood!’

‘Oh!’ Marian gasped and pulled the hood down at once.

They rushed into the woods and found the horses.

‘Will you ride with me on my horse?' he asked Marian. 'I should leave the other for my son.’

‘Certainly, my lord’, said Marian and mounted the saddle behind Gregory.

With one last look over his shoulder at the Abbey in the distance, with one parting prayer for the safety of his son and his best friend, Gregory yanked on the reins and prodded his heels into his steed’s sides, galvanising the beast into a speedy sprint out of Titchfield.

\---------------

Meanwhile, John dragged the two unconscious soldiers into the chamber. From a small window behind the cross, he watched Gregory and Marian rush across the grasslands and disappear into the copse beyond the hill. Only when he was convinced that that they had escaped did he shut the door behind him and follow Sherlock’s path into the southern transept. A short while later, he came upon a door on which hung a crest bearing a lamb. Franklin’s altar. The door was shut. Pushing it open, he saw Sherlock poring over a large parchment spread open on a single altar of polished black stone.

‘Sherlock’, he whispered.

‘This is where the sacrifice will take place’, said Sherlock, lifting one end of the parchment to draw John’s attention to the outline of a human body carved into the black stone. ‘On this altar.’ Then, noticing that John was alone, ‘Where is Father? And the girl?’

‘Gregory has taken her to safety. She is Marian’, he said, his voice soft with wonder. ‘There is something else…’ he started to say but stopped. He cocked his head. ‘Did you hear that?’

Sherlock listened. ‘We are not alone’, he said. ‘Where is your robe?’

‘I gave it to Marian.

‘Take my robe’, Sherlock said at once.

‘And allow you to be discovered? Perish the thought.’

Sherlock threw up his hands. ‘Could you not have procured a fourth robe, John?’

‘I did. It was taken from my room. Someone knew about tonight. Come now, we must leave’, he insisted when footsteps grew louder. Someone was approaching the Abbot’s altar.

Sherlock froze. ‘John, what are you planning?’

‘Nothing. We must go!’

‘John! I am not leaving you here’, Sherlock growled, divining John’s plan.

‘I must remain.’ He gave Sherlock the reasons he had given Gregory but Sherlock would not stop remonstrating. Time and John’s patience were running out. ‘We can argue this when we are both safe in Northumberland, Sherlock’, he said, his voice calm but his hand clasping Sherlock’s wrist tight, dismissing any further argument. ‘Now, put that away’, he said, pointing to the parchment. ‘It will be all right.’

The strength in his voice, the calm conviction was reassuring to Sherlock. His objection was weakened. ‘John-’

‘I have fought wars, Sherlock. This is an Abbey, a place of worship’, John chuckled in a weak attempt to make light of the situation. 'How terrible can it be?'

Sherlock was not amused. ‘An Abbey in which animals are killed and Lucifer is going to be invoked? Quite terrible, I would think. I should never have left you here unprotected.’

‘Look at me, Sherlock.’

…

‘Look at me’, he said again, pushing back the curls from Sherlock’s forehead with his fingers. The tenderness of the gesture made Sherlock lift his eyes. Their gazes locked. ‘You will keep me safe, Sherlock, and I will keep you safe. But it would not do if you were discovered and taken captive, too. You have a better chance of protecting me if you are outside these walls, safe.’

‘I will not allow anything to happen to you. I will come back for you.’

‘I know’, John smiled. ‘Now we must hurry.’

Only marginally convinced, Sherlock hurriedly rolled up the parchment and pushed it back into a hole in the wall. He fitted the brick that he had removed into its slot in the wall and patted it in so that it looked undisturbed. He pulled the hood of his robe over his head.

They had just reached the door when it was pushed wide open. Framed against the ambient light stood the Abbot.

‘Sir John!’ the Abbot exclaimed. His eyebrows arched. ‘Have you lost your way?’

‘I think I might have, Father Franklin’, said John, sounding casual. ‘I sought the necessarium but took a wrong turn in the darkness.’ He smiled.

The Abbot glared at him. Then, ‘Brother?’ he addressed the hooded figure.

John shot a sidelong glance at Sherlock who had been staring at the Abbot since he entered. When Sherlock made no move to answer, John answered for him. ‘Brother Thomas’, he explained, recalling the name of a monk to whom Tuck had introduced him over dinner, ‘found me and was about to guide me back to my quarters when you arrived. I thank you, Brother Thomas. Apologies for rousing you. Please, let me not deny you your rest any longer.’ He gave Sherlock an unmistakeable look.

Sherlock nodded. ‘I bid you a good night, Sir John. Father Abbot’, he murmured with a slight bow to Franklin. Then he left the room before the Abbot could question him further.

‘Good night, Brother Thomas’, the Abbot called out to the departing man.

\----------------

‘Sir John, I believe you perjure yourself’, said the Abbot.

‘What reason would I have to speak a falsehood?’

‘To distract me from the true reason I find you in this chamber.’ The Abbot’s eyes flicked to the wall but Sherlock had very adeptly replaced the loose brick and the wall appeared intact. He trained his gaze on John again. ‘Until I am convinced of the veracity of your words, you will remain in my custody.’

‘ _Custody?_ ’ John asked, his brow arched. ‘I thought I was your guest, not your prisoner. That is quite despotic.’

‘You _were_ my guest, Sir John, until you began to… wander. And wandering is not permitted, as I made clear to you. If that seems despotic to you, it is only the Abbey’s rules that I am following.’

‘Rules that were also imposed by you.’

‘Indeed. By me.’

‘Is it against Abbey rules to relieve oneself after nightfall?’

‘It is not, but that is not why I find you here, Sir John. Is it? You see, you do not inspire trust.’

‘You malign my character, Father Franklin, and I should like to know why.’

‘I am a forthright man.’ He eyes flicked down to John’s waist. Invaincu and his poniard still dangled in their scabbards. ‘If you do not see fit to surrender your weapons to respect the sanctity of the Abbey, I do not see why I should trust an armed warrior staying with us in the guise of a guest.’

‘I am never separated from my weapons, Father. Being habituated to bearing them does not presuppose my use of them.’

The Abbot tossed his head up and, in a sudden change of subject, demanded, ‘Where is the girl?’

‘Girl? In the Abbey?’

‘Please, do not pretend. Surely you find the posturing as unnecessary as I do. Where is the girl? I know you freed her.’

‘I did not.’

‘Yet again you lie. And that is why I cannot let you go. I came from her chamber just now. It is empty. I also saw a hooded man, presumably your accomplice, running into the woods to the east. He had the girl with him. Now there is no one about but the two of us and _Brother Thomas_. I know he is your accomplice as well.’

‘If that is what you think, why did you let him go?’

The reptilian curl of the Abbot’s lips chilled John down to his bones.

He leaned close to John. ‘I _want_ word of your capture to reach your associates. I _want_ them to know I have you. I am tempted to do very bad things to you if the girl and your accomplices do not present themselves at the Abbey by Vespers tomorrow. I might have you killed.’

John was not cowed. ‘You are quite mistaken, Father. And you are wasting your time. I have no associates, and if I did, they would have no means of knowing what is happening to me.’

‘You forget you still retain a friend within these walls, Your Grace’, said the Abbot, his beard lifting in an oblique smirk. ‘I know you did not come here looking for Tuck. In fact, _he_ went looking for _you_. He brought you here. Tuck has been overly curious in the past weeks about things that do not concern him in the least. His curiosity will be curbed, of course, but first I shall deal with you.’

‘You are most imaginative for a man of God, Father, for you see machinations where there are none.’

‘Let us make a wager, then. Tuck will be made aware of your condition and I wager that the girl will be returned to me, with your accomplices, tomorrow. If I win, you will live. If I lose, you will die. Is it not wonderfully opportune that, either way, I win?’ the Abbot laughed.

‘Not if I kill you first’, John snarled, reaching for Invaincu.

Almost instantly, two hulking soldiers appeared and rushed at him. _Had they intercepted Sherlock?_ The shock of their entrance brought with it a sudden pang of fear for Sherlock’s safety and, before he could reach his sword, one large man had grabbed his arms and pinned his wrists behind him while the other clutched his hair with one hand and yanked his head back.

‘Take him to the girl’s cell’, the Abbot snapped. ‘Chain him. Then do with him as you wish. Do not hold back on my account.’

With that, the Abbot turned on his heel and left the chamber. The Templars roughly pushed John forward, the man holding his hair tightening his grip until the pull on his scalp felt painful. He was dragged down to the cell where, less than an hour ago, he had stood with Gregory, seeking the girl.

A hard shove sent John stumbling into the cell. His shoulder crashed into the wall and he fell to the stone floor, face contorted in pain. A large fist, hard as a rock, slammed into his jaw. Another blow, this time to his cheekbone. A blow to his ribs. A punch to his stomach. A kick to his groin. He doubled over. There was a bright light behind his eyes. Then his vision swam before turning black.

\----------------

When he opened his eyes again, the cell was dark. He blinked hard, repeatedly. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings. He was alone in the cell. A dull ache throbbed in his jaw and cheekbone. His ribs hurt with every breath. _Where I was struck_ , he remembered. _Six times. Or was it twelve? Perhaps it was thirty. It feels like thirty._ His arms were held away from his body by iron chains bound around his wrists. He had no memory of being chained. _Sherlock, are you safe?_

The skin on his back felt alternately cool and hot in the dank cell. Looking down at himself, he saw his tunic had been ripped off. His black trousers remained on his body. Moving his shoulders sent a pulse of pain through his torso. Strips of heat ran down his back. Beside his feet lay a whip. _Oh._ His skin had split from the lashes the soldiers had gleefully administered. _That I remember. But only vaguely._ His throat was parched. _Water. Water._ Swallowing was ineffective. An attempt to shout only produced a hoarse groan. His feet still rested on the stone floor; he was grateful that his arms did not have to bear the entire weight of his body. _Sherlock, please be safe, my love. My love._ Closing his eyes, he surrendered his aching body to the dark pull of insentience.

\--------------------

When he came to again, someone was whispering his name, stroking his hair and holding a goblet of water to his parched lips. Blindly he drank the life-giving liquid with long gulps. His eyelids were stuck together and crusted; he forced them open, felt them pull apart and gasped when he saw red crumbs fall away from his lashes. _Dry blood._ His eyebrows moved and he winced when pain shot down from his forehead to his cheeks and radiated over his face in slowly diminishing pulses. He must have received a long gash over his eyebrow.

His eyes flitted over the as yet indistinct chamber; he blinked and then focused his gaze on the figure standing before him.

‘Tuck.’


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock ran up the stairs of the Cross Keys, the Swanwick inn where they had taken up rooms on John’s advice. On his way here, he had passed their two previous residences in Titchfield. Both inns had been burned to the ground. John’s instincts had saved them.

‘Father!’ Sherlock whispered, knocking on the door of the room occupied by Gregory.

It opened. Gregory stood framed by the door.

‘Sherlock, what happened? What about John?’

‘The Abbot intercepted us. I got away. John would not let me stay! We have to go back for him. He is not safe there.’

‘We will, we will get him out of there. Come inside.’

Entering the room, Sherlock saw a girl, around his age, with fire-red hair sitting on the bed, straight-backed, her hands folded in her lap. She exuded a regality that was at odds with her modest clothing. Theo sat beside her. Will, Much and Alan were arrayed against the wall.

The girl conducted a silent appraisal as he, in turn, appraised her.

‘Are you Master Sherlock?’ she asked.

‘I am. And you are Lady Marian.’

‘I am.’

An odd look passed between them. One of cautiousness, but oddly also of kinship.

‘You are of French descent’, Sherlock observed.

‘French?’ asked Gregory. ‘But Sir Mycroft….’

‘Sir Mycroft hails from Nivernais. He wears the crest of Nivernais on his sleeve. Most times, it is concealed under his robes. He has lived in Britain so long that his French accent is almost non-existent. Lady Marian, however, speaks with a stronger French lilt. You have not been in Britain too long’, he said to her.

‘No. I was travelling from Nivernais to Alsace when I was waylaid by masked men. When I woke, I found myself in the cell in the Abbey. I only knew it was an Abbey when I was moved to the transept.’

‘Sherlock,’ said Gregory, ‘there is something you should know. The man we met yesterday was not Sir Mycroft.’

Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted.

‘Lady Marian informs us that Sir Mycroft died in the Holy Land over a year ago. That man must have been a twin’, said Gregory, with a tight nod of finality.

Sherlock was aghast. ‘A twin? Father, that is... forgive me for saying so, a rather preposterous notion.’

Gregory stiffened at the offhand dismissal. ‘How else do you explain the fact that both you and I recognised him as Sir Mycroft when we had first seen him on separate occasions?’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Sherlock patiently, ‘you first saw Sir Mycroft at the coronation. I first saw him in Nottingham. But that does not mean it was not the same man continuing his deception.’

‘Very well, what about John?’ Gregory challenged. ‘John has known Mycroft for years. And Charles. They would know if the man before them was an imposter. It must be twins.’

The others watched the prickly exchange between father and son with amusement.

Indulging his father, Sherlock asked, ‘Lady Marian, did your uncle have a twin brother?’

‘No.’

‘You see, Father? It is never twins! There must be another explanation!’’

‘Perhaps… secret twins?’ Gregory tried.

‘Secret-?’ Sherlock blinked and caught himself before he inadvertently insulted his father. ‘Father, the body that was buried must not have been Mycroft’s. Lady Marian, did you see your uncle’s face before the burial?’

‘No.' She paused, thoughtfully. 'There was nothing to see. His- he had been defaced by the Saracens.’

‘Then how did you know it was your uncle if not from his face?’

‘Sherlock!’ Gregory ground out. ‘Have you no respect for the dead, son?’

‘No, Sir Gregory’, said Marian. ‘His theory has merit.’ She looked at Sherlock. ‘No one thought to verify that it was my uncle’s body but I did see that the tunic bore my uncle’s crest; drawn into his skin was the image of an armoured eagle and on his little finger was the signet ring my uncle wore.’

‘The crest and signet ring could easily have been transferred over to the substitute body and skin-art is also easily replicable. That is insufficient evidence to have accepted that body as that of your uncle.’

Gregory pushed out his lips. ‘I still think it is twins.’

Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted at his father’s unwise insistence but just then, the true import of his inference of Marian’s heritage dawned on him. The issue of twins was suddenly unimportant.

‘Lady Marian, if you are from Nivernais, was your mother perchance Lady Miranda?’

‘Yes! Did you know her?’

‘Not directly. My mother spoke to me of her, but- Father?’

Gregory’s answer was quiet and addressed to Marian. ‘I knew your mother.’

‘You lost your father when you were very young’, Sherlock declared.

‘Wait, Sherlock’, said Gregory. ‘I think you are wrong.’

‘Then correct me, Father.’

‘Lady Marian,’ said Gregory, ‘Lady Miranda’s husband is known to be the Vicomte de Nivernais, Antoine Leclair. I realise that my next question is unforgivably impertinent and inappropriate, but am I correct in assuming that the Vicomte is your father?’

Marian flinched.

‘Forgive me if my question offends.’

‘It does’, she admitted, but then said, ‘I have never been asked that question before and I should like to know why you ask it.’

‘There is something I must ascertain, Lady Marian. It could be at the root of the predicament in which we find ourselves.’ He hesitated, a strange look passing over his face. ‘It could, in fact, be the key to unlocking a much bigger conspiracy that has bled beyond our nation’s borders.’

Marian stared at him. ‘Can I trust you, Sir Gregory?’

‘You can trust every man in this room, Lady Marian. Implicitly.’

Marian locked gazes with each man in turn and saw the truth of Gregory’s words reflected in their eyes.

She exhaled softly, considering her next words. The intervening silence was deafening.

Then, ‘Vicomte Antoine is my step-father. No one but my mother, the Vicomte and I know this, but I was born a year before she was married to the Vicomte. I do not know my birth father. But… my mother did tell me he was British.’

‘Oh Lord!’ Gregory gasped. ‘I know him. I know your birth father.’

A pall descended over the room.

‘Who is he, my lord?’ she demanded, rising to her feet and walking up to Gregory. ‘Who is he?’

Gregory seemed dumbfounded with the shock of discovery.

Sherlock thought back to something Gregory had said to him the day they had first met. His eyes darkened with insight. ‘Charles was seeking someone very particular, was he not? He thought I was that person. But it was Lady Marian all along.’ He looked to Gregory for confirmation. ‘Am I right, Father?’

‘You are right, Sherlock. Lady Marian’, said Gregory, gentling his voice, ‘your father was- you are the daughter of King Richard, the Lionheart.’

A stunned silence blanketed the room until Marian let out a disbelieving huff. ‘Surely you jest, Sir Gregory! I have never met King Richard. My mother has never spoken of him. Ever.’

‘I do not jest, my lady. You are Richard’s child. I now see him in you as clearly as I see your mother. Your red hair is your mother’s gift to you but she is petite whereas your limbs are long and your eyes are green because of your father.’

‘That reasoning does not convince me in the slightest, my lord. Red hair and green eyes on a woman are hardly unique. And my uncle was tall. None of what you said definitively makes me Richard’s child.’

Gregory sighed. He told her of Richard’s romance, twenty years ago, with a young lady in the palace of Phillip Augustus of France.

‘Your father and I were the best of friends since boyhood. Lady Miranda’s brother had discovered your mother and Richard in a compromising position. She did not speak of Richard because she had sworn to her brother never to associate with Richard again if he would keep her secret, and her honour, safe. He did. Mycroft did. But it was not a promise either Lady Miranda or Richard intended to keep. And over the years, Mycroft and Richard grew to trust and respect each other. However, your mother was married the following year to your step-father and Richard never returned from his Crusade.’

His next words were a grave proclamation. ‘Lady Marian, you are the true heir to the throne of Britain. You are the Lionheart’s daughter and Charles knows that now.’

‘You speak of improbable things, my lord! How do you know all this?’

‘Because I was there! In France, in the court of Phillip Augustus!’ Gregory then revealed to her his own love for Sherlock’s mother whom he had met during the same visit to France. ‘Sherlock was born six months after you, my lady. But living with his mother would have meant death for us both. You see, my lady, Richard and I were both separated from our loves and our children.’

Marian shook her head, long curls shaking thickly like a curtain of red around her shoulders. She was still rejecting his explanation. ‘But the Lionheart had no known heirs.’

‘He did not know then that he had left your mother with child. He told me he had given Lady Miranda the pendant of a two-headed lion, treasured a family heirloom, to signify his undying love for her until he was able to return to her.’ When Marian did not answer, Gregory said, ‘He would never have left her side but it was a time of upheaval and he had an obligation to his father and to the people of Britain to fight in the Crusades. Lady Marian,’ he paused, ‘I cannot, with any degree of confidence, speculate about how or when he learned that he had a child but he _did_ know of you.’

By now, Marian’s eyes were glistening. Her hands were clenched into fists. ‘How can you be certain?’ she asked, her voice soft, hopeful.

‘Sir John visited the King in Cyprus. Richard was dying. He had been poisoned. But before he took his last breath, Richard asked John to pledge allegiance to _his blood_ , his true heir. To you.’

Marian walked to the window and looked out at the dark rolling grasslands beyond, dimly visible in the light of the stars as they stretched towards the horizon. In the distance, the first glow of the coming dawn was lightening the sky. She stood like that for a long while, with her back to the men waiting for her to accept her father's legacy. She would not allow them to see the conflict raging inside her. Her eyes slowly drew shut and the air left her lungs in a slow, healing breath. The missing piece in the puzzle of her past had been found. No longer was she a fatherless child. A sense of completeness subsumed the moment. The restlessness in her heart had been dispelled and in its place was purpose, meaning. Destiny. She was ready for her future.

Slowly, she turned around to face the men watching her with concern and… respect. Lifting her hands to her neck, she pulled out a thin chain of gold from inside her tunic. It was weighed down by a pendant. In the shape of a two-headed lion. Her words were quiet, filled with wonder. ‘One lion looks to the past, the other to the future. My mother always said that my destiny lay beyond the shores of France. I did not understand what she meant. I did not know the significance of this medallion until today.’

Gregory smiled ruefully. ‘All this while, Sir John and I we were looking for Richard’s male heir. Charles tried to have Sherlock killed in Tiberias and again in Acre because he knew Richard had begotten a child in France and assumed it was a boy. Assumed it was Sherlock. What none of us imagined is that Britain will have a Queen.’

Gregory knelt before her and immediately, the other men also dropped to one knee before their queen.

‘Sir Gregory-’

‘You are our queen, Your Majesty.’

She touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps one day soon, Sir Gregory, but until I am crowned Queen, I am only Marian.’

‘Lady Marian, we will ensure, at the cost of our lives, that the throne of Britain is restored to the bloodline of the Lionheart.’

Marian closed her eyes. Her shoulders rose and fell with her breaths as she grappled with the magnitude of her true heritage. The moment stretched, long, silent. Then her eyes opened and in them the kneeling men saw the unshakeable strength of a girl born to be a monarch. Now, underscoring her youth and inexperience was an iron will. She looked every bit a queen, her regality shining through her peasant robes.

‘Then come, Sir Gregory, for we must first put an end to the evil that is the Abbot.’

‘The evil spreads beyond just the Abbot, my lady’, said Sherlock. ‘The King and the Sheriff of Nottingham are attempting to raise Lucifer in Titchfield Abbey. And the Abbot is helping them.’

Marian was horrified. ‘Master Sherlock, no one would desecrate an Abbey like that.’

‘The Abbot would.’ Sherlock told her about the Church of the Shining One, about the altars and animal sacrifices. ‘And they need you for the final act. Father’, he said, turning to Sir Gregory, ‘Charles had visited Huntingdon the day before Sir Ailric and Lady Rowena were killed.’

‘Why did you not speak of this before?’

‘I did not think it relevant then. But what is curious is that the Abbot was with him.  Charles did not introduce him to us and the Abbot kept very quiet, but he followed me around with his eyes. I saw him again today in the Abbey. In his altar, I found a scroll. It described, pictorially and with words, the final ritual they will perform to raise the dark lord.’ He stopped, shooting a look from Gregory to Marian.

‘What did the scroll say, Master Sherlock?’ Marian demanded.

‘It is a rather gruesome scenario, my lady.’

‘If I am to be Queen, I had best become accustomed to gruesome scenarios.’ Smirking, she added, ‘I cannot imagine ruling a nation is a bloodless sport.’

Still, Sherlock looked to Gregory who nodded his assent.

‘There was a series of pictures. The first showed three men cutting their palms and letting the blood drip into a bowl. In the next illustration, they pour the blood over the altar. Then a priest holds a knife over the chest of a young girl - or a youth, it was hard to tell - lying on the altar. The victim’s robes are torn open and the priest is shown carving an inverted pentagram into the bare chest. Blood from the wound flows into the body-shaped channel carved into the surface of the altar, leading down to a partially-formed couchant figure, bluish-gray and translucent, conjured at the head of the altar. The figure appears vaguely to be a man with the head of a goat, with horns, and cloven feet. The apparition begins to solidify. He now has wings. He rises to his feet, his wings spread wide and emanating from him is a blinding light. Lucifer has been raised from Hell into this world.’

Sherlock’s audience exchanged looks of dismay.

‘Why would they want me, or you, specifically?’ Marian asked.

‘They need to make a sacrifice of a virgin of royal birth.’

‘Oh’, Theo squeaked in horror.

Will, however, laughed. It was a loutish sound. ‘It would be such a comedy of errors if they used you, Sherlock!’ he guffawed. His irreverence shattered the gravitas that pervaded the room.

‘What do you mean, Master Will?’ asked Marian, coldly.

‘What Will means is that Sherlock is not as royal as you are, my lady’, Theo offered hurriedly, elbowing Will hard in his ribs.

‘Theo knows that is not the only thing I mean, Lady Marian. Imagine for a moment their disappointment when Lucifer did not appear.’ He laughed some more.

‘Be quiet, you brute’, Theo admonished him fondly.

Marian’s aborted eye-roll was not lost on Gregory.

‘Theo, Will. That will do.’

‘Forgive us, Father, my lady.’

\---------------------

John lifted his head.

‘Tuck.’

‘I must unchain you, John! Let me take you to my chamber where I can tend to your wounds.’

‘No! No, do not do that.’

‘But John-’

‘No, Tuck. I must remain here.’ He grimaced.

‘Let me unlock your chains, then, but leave them threaded in your cuffs. That should convince the Abbot that you are still shackled but leave you free to escape when the moment presents itself.’

John nodded, then groaned when the movement pulled on the skin on his back. ‘Sherlock. Is he safe? Has he reached Swanwick?’

‘I do not know, John. I have not left the Abbey since last night. Brother Thomas came to me and said the Abbot had taken you prisoner. I have to find your friends.’

John recognised the irony of the real Brother Thomas speaking with Tuck. ‘Listen to me, Tuck. You will not do that.’

‘How can I _not_?’

‘That is precisely what the Abbot predicted. That you would learn of my condition and set out in search of my friends and lead him to them. He suspects you, Tuck. You must stay safe. You must not leave the Abbey’

‘If he suspects me, I am as good as dead already. But there is still time to save you.’

‘Do not go to them, Tuck. That will doom them to the same fate.’

‘I will be discreet about it, I promise. Trust me, John. I will not let you down. Not again. Forgive me, my friend’, he said. ‘This is all my fault.’

‘No, Tuck. You are a good man, a holy man, a true servant of the Lord. We will survive this like we survived the Crusades.’

‘Oh, John.’

‘My throat feels drier than the sands of the Negev’, John gasped.

Tuck held up the refilled goblet to his lips and John drank desperately.

‘I must treat your injuries. The soldiers have not been kind to you.’

John dropped his head to his chest and behind him, Tuck spread a salve over the raw wounds from the whiplashes. Then he tended to the gash over John’s eyebrow. A deep burning accompanied every application and John hissed.

‘Forgive me, I know this stings. It is a much stronger salve than I would ordinarily use. But your wounds are deep and this will help accelerate your recovery. You should begin to heal in a few hours.’

He tried to hold still while Tuck tended to him.

‘John, there is something else.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The Abbot is someone else.’

‘What?’

‘I saw him today! I was passing by his quarters. The door was open. He had just stepped out of his bath chamber. And… and- oh, lord! John, he had no hair on his face.’

John frowned, not understanding why that would alarm Tuck to this extent. ‘Why is that so remarkable? Perhaps he shaved his face.’

Tuck shook his head. ‘When I saw him later in the nave, he had his moustache and his beard.’

‘Wh- what?’

‘John, the man I saw earlier – I have seen him once before. In Nottingham!’

‘What are you saying, Tuck? Who is he? The Sheriff?’

‘No, not the Sheriff! I do not know his name, it was never announced, but he sat on the royal podium.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ John dropped his head. ‘He knew from the start! That is why he came to us in Titchfield! He knows, Tuck! He knows!’

‘Who knows?’

Footsteps echoed down the hallway leading to John’s cell. They grew louder.

‘You must leave now, Tuck. I feel the darkness come on again. Do not go to them, no matter what happens to me. Keep them safe’, was the last thing John said before slipping into unconsciousness again.

\---------------------

The next morning, Tuck climbed the stairs to the library.

‘Brother Thomas’, Tuck said to the man poring over a large book in the library.

The younger friar looked up. He smiled. ‘Brother Tuck.’

‘I should be grateful if you could run a little personal errand for me today. It will entail a visit to Swanwick. I have certain duties to attend to in the Abbey or I would have gone myself.’

‘Certainly, Brother Tuck.’

‘The matter is of some delicacy and I would appreciate your discretion.’

‘Of course. I shall speak of it to no one.’

‘I am grateful, Brother Thomas. I am searching for the niece of a friend. She has absconded from home. With a young man of dubious morals. I believe she has taken rooms at an inn in Swanwick but there are eight inns in that town and I do not know which of those she has favoured. I have a petition to deliver to the young man and have written it out eight times. Could I stretch your generosity and ask you to deliver them to each of those eight inns?’

Thomas sat back in his chair. ‘You need not spin a tale we both know to be untrue, Brother Tuck.’

Tuck had miscalculated. He took an imperceptible step back, but Thomas was still smiling. Kindly.

‘I am happy to be of assistance to you in any way I can. It is the least I can do to repay you for your kindness after-’, his voice choked.

Tuck nodded sadly.

‘I will deliver your notes but I think it would be prudent to wait until I can leave the Abbey unobserved.’

‘That would be most prudent, Brother Thomas’, Tuck smiled.

\--------------

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock opened it. The innkeeper stood there, holding out a folded, sealed parchment. The seal had withstood an attempt to open it. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the innkeeper.

‘This was delivered for you’, said the innkeeper, trying to steal a look inside the chamber over Sherlock’s shoulder.

‘Thank you’, said Sherlock. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘No. Look, whatever you are doing in there, with the girl, I do not want you causing any trouble. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly. We shall not cause you or your fine establishment any trouble. Have a good day.’

Sherlock shut the door and held up the missive. He opened it and read Tuck’s handwriting.

_Your friend is gravely ill. His physician has administered a styptic that has been ineffective on him. In fact, it has had the opposite effect. Now he is weak from his wounds and loss of blood. He is in need of your help. Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same. He wishes to see his niece. Do bring her with you. Tonight might be the last sunset he sees if you do not. – Tuck._

His fingers opened. The note fluttered in the air and floated to the ground.

Gregory rushed to him. ‘What is it, Sherlock?’

Sherlock thrust his hands into his hair. His breathing grew heavy, laboured. ‘The Abbot has John. He has hurt him. I must go to him! I must!’

His hand instinctively closed around the hilt of his sword under the monk’s robe that he still wore. Turning on his heel, he marched towards the door but found himself blocked by the broad chest of Will Scarlett.

Sherlock glared at the larger man. ‘Out of my way’, he growled through clenched teeth.

Will clucked his tongue. ‘You are not going anywhere alone.’

‘Sherlock,’ said Gregory, ‘we will not let _anything_ happen to John. You have my word. But now is the time to think with your head, not your heart.’

Gregory clasped Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. He held his son’s shaking body tight but Sherlock would not embrace his father.

‘This is a waste of time, Father’, he ground out against his father’s shoulder, standing stiff, consumed by his own dread. ‘I must go to him. He needs me. I must go to him’, he muttered.

A strange sound rumbled in his throat, strangled, despairing, and it broke Gregory’s heart.

‘It will be all right, Sherlock. John is a warrior. He will not be overcome so easily.’

As Sherlock’s hopes sank, his desperation rose, and with it his voice. Roughly, he disengaged himself from Gregory’s arms. ‘Obviously, he was overcome _quite_ easily if he is wounded and losing blood!’ he shouted.

‘Take heart, my son. We _will_ get him out of there. Do you trust me? Sherlock! We must think this through.’

Sherlock began to pace the floor. ‘I cannot think!’

Marian stepped up to him. ‘Then let us help you, Master Sherlock’, she said. ‘Sir John is very dear to you, is he not?’

Sherlock held her gaze and answered the unspoken question hovering between them. ‘He is, Lady Marian.’

‘Then you must take me back to the Abbey.’

‘What? No!’

‘That is the only way.’

Sherlock searched her face. He looked for nervousness, hesitation. He saw unshakeable resolve.

‘The Abbot wants me. You and Sir Gregory will come with me. The Abbot must have seen us escape. And you said he saw you, Master Sherlock. We will return to the Abbey. We will free Sir John. And we will end this evil.’

‘But, my lady-’

‘Hush, Master Sherlock. You will find that when I am not impaired by mind-and-sense-numbing opiates, I can be quite effective with a sword.’

‘But it is our duty to protect our Queen, not lead her into a situation where her life is threatened.’

‘And it a Queen’s duty to keep her people safe. You must trust me now, Master Sherlock, as I have trusted you and your father and your friends.’


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JuJuBee (Marcy09), the last word in the chapter is for you. But don't skip ahead!! :)

* * *

The knock on the large wooden doors of Titchfield Abbey echoed through the nave behind them. Slowly the doors opened.

‘Welcome back, Lady Marian’, said the Abbot. ‘ _Brother Thomas_ , I assume’, he said to Sherlock. ‘And you are?’ he asked Gregory.

‘No one important’, Gregory mumbled.

‘Indeed, you are not’, the Abbot agreed. ‘Follow me. Do not make a scene. The other brothers are oblivious to the more clandestine goings-on. Be assured that if you make any sudden moves, my men will unite Sir John, _brave_ Sir John, with Saint Peter before his time.’

‘Take us to Sir John’, said Sherlock.

‘Young man, you are in no position to make demands. In fact, you should be grateful I have kept your friend alive.’

Four soldiers walked up to them, accompanied by a monk. The friar was holding a large tray on which were three goblets.

‘You must be parched. It is a hot day outside. Please, quench your thirst’, said the Abbot.

None volunteered to take the offered drink.

‘Ah’, said the Abbot, catching their doubtful looks. ‘You fear I am about to poison you. Have no fear. It is only water.’

The soldiers took a step forward, their hands clasped around their swords.

Marian looked from Gregory to Sherlock, fortitude in her eyes. She reached for a goblet and took a sip. The two men also picked up a goblet each and drank from it.

The liquid had a bitter aftertaste.

‘This is not water’, she said.

The Abbot laughed. ‘No?’

‘What is it?’ Gregory demanded.

‘Dwale’, Sherlock answered.

‘Indeed, Master William’, said the Abbot. ‘Dwale. The same soporific your dear Sir John fed our brothers last night. In a few hours, you will sleep well. And when you wake, the Church will serve another master.’ He turned to the soldiers. ‘Hold them here. I shall return shortly. Come, Lady Marian. You have places to be.’

The Abbot led Marian up to the transepts. He returned a short while later.

‘Now that Lady Marian is where she belongs, let us take you to Sir John, shall we?’ They strode down the cloister, flanked by two soldiers each, past the necessarium. They descended the steps to the underground cells. The Abbot stopped before the last cell.

‘Come, meet your friend’, he said, smiling at Gregory and Sherlock and looked at the prisoner inside.

‘Turn around, Sir John’, he said to the man whose hands were held above his head, hanging from the chains, the back of his matted hair brown with sweat. ‘You have visitors.’

The man slowly turned around and the men outside the cell looked into the brown eyes of a stranger.

‘Damnation! Who - who are you?’ the Abbot shouted.

‘Aldrich.’ The man coughed. ‘Aldrich of Lancashire. I am a soldier.’

‘ _Soldier?_ ’ The Abbot’s lips curled below his moustache. ‘If you were a soldier of any merit, it would be the _knight_ held up by chains, not you. Where is he?’

‘He had been freed; his hands were unchained but made to look as if he were still restrained. When I came to give him his morning gruel, he…’, the soldier panted. ‘He attacked me, stripped me of my armour and bound me. Then he ran away.’

‘You daft, incompetent waste of flesh! I shall have your skin flayed from your back for this!’

Straining against the chains, the solider leaned forward, noisily generated sputum at the back of his throat and forcefully expelled it at the Abbot’s feet. ‘Monster.’

Wordlessly, the Abbot held out a hand and a solider placed the hilt of his sword in it. The Abbot thrust the blade between the bars of the cell door and ran the bound soldier through in his stomach. The soldier’s head lolled down to his chest. The Abbot pulled the sword out, wiped the blade on the soldier’s tunic and stepped back from the cell.

Gregory and Sherlock found their arms grabbed and pinned behind their backs. The dwale was taking effect and both were quickly losing their consciousness. A blow to their backs of their heads made the world turn black and they crumpled to the floor.

\------------------------

‘Wake up’, a voice whispered from the region of Sherlock’s chest.

His eyes fluttered open. He was looking down at his feet because his head hung down to his chest, his shoulders wrenched upwards by the chains binding his outstretched arms at the wrists. He looked up. ‘Who are you?’ he asked the unfamiliar monk.

‘I am Brother Thomas. Brother Tuck sent me’, he gasped, straining to stand on tip-toe to reach the lock in Sherlock’s cuffs. After three attempts that resulted in scratches to Sherlock’s forearms, he gave up. ‘I shall need you to unlock yourself’, he said, and thrust the key into Sherlock’s fingers.

While Sherlock attempted to free himself, Thomas entered Gregory’s cell. Fortunately, Gregory’s looser chains hung lower, and Thomas was able to reach them. As soon as Gregory was free, they ran back into Sherlock’s cell and, being as tall as Sherlock, Gregory easily reached up to the locks in his cuffs and freed his son.

‘It is fortunate that Tuck retains his post as the Keeper of Keys’, Gregory commented. ‘Where is Tuck?’

‘He has been confined to his quarters.’

‘Confined?’

‘Incarcerated’, Thomas clarified. ‘I have been instructed to keep him locked until Lauds tomorrow.’

‘Then why do you help us?’

‘I know of the goings-on in the Abbey. I am a man of God, but the Abbot serves His nemesis.’

‘Have you seen our friend?’

‘The knight with the golden hair?’

‘Yes, that is he.’

‘I do not know where he is but Tuck freed him. Perhaps he has escaped. We must hurry. It is almost dawn. The Morning Star will rise very soon, which means the time of the final sacrifice is almost upon us. Your weapons’, he said, and handed each man their own belts on which hung their scabbard-sheathed swords. ‘Now, drink this’, he urged, holding out a waterskin.

‘What is this?’ asked Gregory. He was in no hurry to be poisoned again.

‘A stimulant. It will counter the effects of the dwale.’

‘Why should we trust you?’ Sherlock asked.

Young Thomas looked into Sherlock’s eyes. ‘My loyalty is to Tuck, not the Abbot.’

But Sherlock wanted more. ‘

‘I had a friend, a very dear friend’, said Brother Thomas, very softly, ‘by the name of Nicholas. He was a Friar here, three years older than I. The Keeper of Keys before Tuck was appointed. The Abbot discovered us one day. Together, in Nicholas’ chamber.’ There was a jump in his throat as he swallowed. Moisture collected in his eyes. The memories were fresh. ‘Nicholas took the blame for leading me astray, away from the path of God. The Abbot had him dragged out of there. The next day, his lifeless body was found hanging from a tree in the grove yonder. Tuck was appointed to his post thereafter. Tuck knew. He- helped me, prevented me from ending my own life. He has been my confidante since.’ He lifted his eyes.

‘Oh, my boy’, said Gregory, softly. He placed a compassionate hand on the young man’s shoulder.

‘I am sorry, Brother Thomas’, said Sherlock. ‘You have our gratitude.’

Gregory and he quaffed the stimulant and ran all the way across the Abbey to the transepts.

‘Do you have the darts, Sherlock?’ Gregory asked as they ran.

‘I do’, Sherlock said, pulling up his sleeve all the way to his bicep, where he had fastened the cuff holding the darts to avoid its discovery.

‘Good. We will need them.’

They stopped at the turn in the hallway at the end of which was the Abbot’s altar. Sherlock saw two soldiers standing guard outside the door. They were of medium height, one slighter than the other. The taller guard turned his head and looked right at Sherlock, unafraid. Sherlock’s fingers tightened around the dart he held. The soldier held up a gloved hand. Was he saying “ _Wait_ _”?_ Sherlock held still. The soldier held a finger to his lips. Then his hand went to his visor. He lifted it. Sherlock saw his face. _Alan!_

Sherlock ran towards the door, followed closely by Gregory. The second soldier was Much in disguise.

‘How did you get in?’ Gregory whispered.

‘A compassionate friar let us in, quite young.’

‘Brother Thomas’, said Sherlock. ‘Where are Will and Theo?’

‘Inside, dressed as soldiers to protect Lady Marian. Will easily took down the guards on duty. We took their clothes.’

‘Did you see John?’

‘No.’

‘I have to find John!’

‘Sherlock…’, Alan hesitated. ‘We looked for John but could not find him. Brother Thomas said they- they have not been kind to him. He was…’

‘N- no!’ Sherlock’s arm shot out, palm pressing against the wall to hold himself upright because his legs had suddenly lost all their strength.

Gregory’s hand clasped Sherlock’s bicep. ‘He is alive, Sherlock. Never forget, John is a warrior, not some innocent who has been handed a sword. Now, there are three lives at stake inside, three lives that our next actions can either safeguard or doom.’

Sherlock lifted his eyes to his father and in them was a green fire, a volcano bubbling under the surface. ‘All I know', he ground out very deliberately, ‘is that John is hurt and I must find him.’

‘Sherlock, you have a duty to your friends, to your Queen!’

‘I have a duty to John. _Everything_ else is secondary.’

‘No, Sherlock!’ Gregory growled, exerting his fatherly authority as he never had needed to before. ‘No. Stop this madness. John would agree with me that your duty, _our_ duty is first to the Queen.’

‘Unhand me, then, Father’, Sherlock warned, shaking his father’s hand off.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I am going to make short shrift of Lucifer and his minions and _then_ find John. Out of my way’, he snarled with coiled ferocity at Alan and Much.

Fearful of this new side of Sherlock, they stepped aside. Sherlock drew his sword and pushed on the doors, throwing them open.

The surprise entrance startled the men inside the chamber. In seconds, Sherlock took stock of the situation in the chamber. He counted six soldiers. The Abbot, the Sheriff and the King were standing around the altar, frozen in shock. Marian was laid flat on the altar, bound but not unconscious. She was struggling against her restraints. The Abbot’s hands were clasping a dagger and holding it above Marian’s chest. He has been about to plunge the blade into her chest when the doors had flown open. Before the Abbot could react, Sherlock slipped a hand under his sleeve, pulled a dart out of its slot and, with unerring aim, threw it at the Abbot. It lodged itself deep in the Abbot’s eye. The Abbot’s hands dropped the dagger and flew to his face. With a cry, he crashed to the floor, blood streaming down his face. Within seconds, the potent soporific on the tip of the dart had stolen his consciousness and he lay in a heap of white fabric on the cold stone tiles.

‘Look who it is!’ said the unmistakable voice of Will Scarlett from behind a helmet. He and another smaller soldier rushed towards him and pretended to make a grab for his arms. It was Theo. Sherlock easily dodged their grasp. Gregory rushed in after him, sword clasped in his outstretched hand, and they slammed the flat of their blades lightly on the soldiers’ backs, sending them sprawling to the ground. It might have seemed a little too easy if the cries Will and Theo uttered had not been dramatically loud and suggestive of great pain.

Alan and Much followed them and bolted the door from the inside. Eight soldiers were now in the chamber, four with them, four against them. No one was getting in or out until this situation was resolved.

The Sheriff had drawn his sword and was holding it to Marian’s neck. She struggled against her chains. ‘If you come any closer, I will open her throat’ he intoned, clicking his tongue for effect. ‘Drop your weapons. Guards, take them.’

Much and Alan made a show of pinning Gregory’s and Sherlock’s wrists behind them. Will and Theo ran to stand protectively behind the King and the Sheriff. The other soldiers stood back, waiting, their swords drawn.

The shrill sound of metal scraping against metal rang out in the silent chamber. The King stiffened when the blade of a sword touched his neck. Almost simultaneously, the tip of Theo’s blade pressed into the Sheriff’s back.

The other soldiers were about to dash to the King’s protection when the taller guard spoke. ‘Stand back, if you value the life of your King! Sheriff, you will withdraw your sword and Lady Marian go.’

The Sheriff only laughed. ‘Go? Go _where_? She has not yet fulfilled the purpose of her existence. She is to be offered to the Dark Lord who will bring his light to this accursed world!’

Theo’s hand trembled but his sword remained firmly pressed into the Sheriff’s back. Will’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, pressed lightly into the King’s neck.

‘Robert’, Charles choked out.

‘Do not be a coward, Charles. You are the King. Think like one. They will not harm you as long as there is a chance that Lady Marian might be saved. It appears we have traitors in our midst. Lift your visors, everyone!’ he ordered. ‘Not you both, of course’, he added to Will and Theo.  

Four soldiers lifted their visors.

The Sheriff regarded the other two through narrowed eyes. ‘Ah, two more conspirators.’ He shot a bored look in the direction of the real guards. ‘Well?’ he drawled, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Do you need an invitation to protect your employers?’

The chastened soldiers looked at one another in confusion. In an almost choreographed move, Much and Alan lunged at two closest to them and Sherlock and Gregory attacked the other two. Capitalising on the momentary distraction, the Sheriff spun on his heel and slashed his sword across Theo’s waist.

‘Theo!’ Will shouted. He struck the King’s head hard with the hilt of his sword and swung his blade up, parrying a death blow to Theo from the Sheriff’s sword.

Stunned by the blow to his head, the King fell in a daze to the floor while Theo whimpered and crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding wound. Meanwhile, Will engaged the Sheriff. Despite his smaller frame, the Sheriff was an expert swordsman and capably defended himself from Will’s onslaught with deft footwork and equally adroit wristwork.

In another part of the chamber, Gregory and Sherlock fought off the larger soldiers while the other two steadily overpowered Much and Alan, whose sword-fighting skills had not yet been developed adequately.

A loud thump sounded at the door. Then another, and another. Harder and louder each time until the wooden latch shattered under the repeated impact of the battering ram pounding on the door from the outside. The door was flung open and in poured more soldiers. Metal clashed against metal, sending small sparks flying into the air. Sherlock and Gregory fought with their backs to each other, fending off the soldiers assailing them from all sides.

The slash of a blade, the ripping of fabric, a shout of pain. Gregory’s knee buckled, weakened by the gash he had received. He fell against his son’s back.

‘Father!’ shouted Sherlock, turning around to help his father stand.

He had one arm around his father’s chest when a fire shot through his side. As if in a dream, he lifted the other arm, looked down at his body, at the hilt of the knife that protruded from his flesh. Still holding his father, he swung his blade, taking off the head of the soldier whose knife was embedded in him. A white light flooded his eyes. He blinked to steady his vision but his head swam. This was no ordinary wound. He had been poisoned. Grabbing the knife handle, he pulled it out, grimacing against the pain of the blade retreating from his flesh. He flung the freed weapon at a soldier readying to plunge his sword into Much. The man shouted and fell to the floor.

Gregory had regained his footing and was striking at their attackers, sword in one hand, poniard in the other. But there were too many to fight. Much and Alan lay unconscious on the floor. Theo was clutching his wound, pressed against the wall. Marian was still bound to the altar. Will and the Sheriff advanced and retreated in a savage dance of feet and blades, dealing blows and blocking them, too closely matched.

And Sherlock was rapidly weakening as the poison spread through his blood. A second blade sliced down his back, leaving a rip in his tunic and his flesh. Blinded by pain, he lashed his sword out, taking the life of one solider. His tunic turned red. Another slash burned down his back. A kick to the back of his knee folded his leg and sent him sprawling face-first on the floor. He flipped onto his back just in time to hold up his blade and slice the foot that was about to stamp his face. A second swipe of his blade severed the foot from its leg. His attacker tottered and fell flat on his back, blood gushing like a fount from the end of his twitching limb.

He pushed himself onto his feet again. The next few minutes felt like a slow eternity. His sword hummed around him in a flurry of strokes, cutting flesh and bone. Steel pierced his shoulder and withdrew, only to thrust in again into his lower back. Enraged, he let out a horrific bellow and hacked at his assailants until they lay strewn around him. Unconscious or dead, he did not know, but it did mattered not because he could not stand. 

There was a temporary respite in the fracas. Sherlock seized his chance and dragged his body behind the altar, tried to sit up against the stone but sank to the ground. He observed the fight from his prone position but his vision was beginning to blur. He had almost surrendered consciousness when he caught sight of two figures he had not noticed before. They were in the far corner of the chamber. A tall hooded monk standing behind a shorter monk. The tall man did not engage in the fight. But the shorter man held up a sword. It was distantly familiar. The monk’s body moved with a recognisable, tight grace. He dispatched the two soldiers attacking him and ran to Gregory.

‘Twins’, Sherlock heard the monk say to Gregory. “ _It is never twins!”_ _,_ he wanted to shout. But his voice would not cooperate. Lifting his head, he saw the horizontal body of the Abbot. _Master William_ , the Abbot had called him. _How did he know that?_ _How could he? No!_ Sherlock dragged his broken body closer to the Abbot, leaving a trail of red in his wake, and reached out a hand to his face. He tugged on the bristly beard. It came loose. He pulled it off. His breath caught in his throat. The jawline was smooth, shaved clean. Stretching his arm, he pulled on the gray curls. It also was false. Underneath it was reddish hair. The face under all that bushy hair was that of Sir Mycroft. He fell back on the floor, panting. The stone underneath grew wetter with his blood.

The shorter monk rushed to Marian. Sherlock could no longer see him from where he lay. Above him, he heard a key turn in a lock and presently, Marian’s chains slinked to the ground. He heard Marian sit up.

The clash of metal rang out in the background.

‘My lady’, he heard the monk say, ‘you must escape.’

‘That is the way of a coward. Give me a weapon.’

‘My lady-’

‘I will stay and fight’, she said coldly. ‘You can argue or you can give me your poniard.’ She must have convinced the monk to part with his weapon because, a moment later, she leapt over the edge of the altar. The tips of her red hair swept the ground in a thick cascade when she swooped down to snatch up a sword from a hand of a dead soldier and, armed with poniard and sword, threw herself into the fight. Sherlock watched in quiet admiration of her graceful movements, elegant and deadly, as she stood shoulder to shoulder with Gregory, Will and the monk and cut down their attackers until only the Abbot, the King and the Sheriff remained. But, unseen by them, one soldier still moved behind the altar.

Sherlock’s head jerked to the side at the whisper of a blade. He was too late. A knife plunged into his stomach. His torso lifted, curling inwards, abdomen clenching against the pain, then he fell back onto the stone tiles. The arm holding the sword fell to his side, knocking his hand on the floor. His fingers opened around the hilt. A sandaled foot kicked the sword away. Yellow torchlight glinted off the blade positioned over him.

Sherlock looked up at the steel descending towards him, ready to sink into his chest like a stake.  But the man above him dropped his sword and clutched his throat, felt the knife stuck in his neck. He fell to his knees, then onto his back. Dead.

Gregory gestured with his head to the altar. ‘Go to him’, he said to the monk.

The hooded man rushed over to Sherlock. ‘Oh, no, no!’ he whispered, his voice trembling.

Sherlock saw him approach, saw the hooded figure lean over him, caught a flash of gold under the shroud. Then the darkness took over and his eyes closed.

\------------------

Sherlock’s lashes lifted then snapped shut. The rays of the noonday sun streamed through the window. When he opened his eyes again, John was looking at him, his blue eyes wide and wet as the ocean, anguish marring his features.

‘I was late’, said John.

Sherlock drew a pained breath. ‘You are here. That is all that matters.’

‘No. It is not enough.’

‘It is. It will always be enough.’

‘Hush. You need to rest.’

‘Franklin- he was Mycroft. I saw his face.’

‘Not Mycroft.’

‘No?’

John shook his head. ‘Mycroft died in the Holy Land. The Abbot was his twin brother, James.’

Sherlock laughed, then winced when a twinge of pain shot through his side.

‘Hush… You must not strain yourself.’

‘Father was right. Twins.’ His flushed lips stretched in pain. ‘How do you know that? How did Lady Marian not know she had a second uncle?’

‘Because no one told her. But the Archbishop knew. He told me.’

‘The Archbishop is here?’

‘He is. I had to send for him. That is what delayed me. He needed to see everything, to learn the truth. He will pronounce Marian’s claim to the throne legitimate.’

‘James?’ asked Sherlock, wanting to know more.

‘Yes. Mycroft’s twin brother, born to their father’s first wife a minute before Mycroft. As identical physically as they were dissimilar in character. Their father had James struck from the annals of their family and banished him for seducing his step-mother. She was closer in age to him than to her husband. Mycroft inherited his father’s title, property and wealth and James never forgave him.

‘Disowned, disgraced and stripped of all the privileges his nobility had afforded him, James had been plotting his revenge for decades. James was in France, in the court of Phillip Augustus. He knew Richard had created an heir that day. His affinity with Charles grew from their hate for their brothers. They had Mycroft killed and defaced in Jerusalem so that James could take his place. They then had Richard poisoned.’

‘Marian. She is the Queen.’

John nodded. ‘Yes. The Archbishop witnessed everything, heard every confession. He will convince the Church of England to recognize her as an ætheling, despite being a woman born out of wedlock to Richard. Charles, James and the Sheriff will be hanged in London, in Kenilworth Castle, until their necks break. It will be a public execution. Lady Marian will then be crowned Queen.’

Sherlock sighed. John ran a hand over his hair. Blood and sweat had matted his curls.

‘Is Father safe? And Theo? And Will-’ Sherlock’s throat seized around a cough.

‘They are all safe.’

Sherlock let out a long breath. ‘And you, John? They told me- .’ He cupped his palm over John’s cheek, tracing the outline of the purple bruises, his eyebrow just below the gash.

‘I am fine. I am’, John swallowed, but he was shaking his head. His throat ached. ‘I am completely fine. You must not worry about me.’

‘I will always worry about you.’

‘I know. You must rest now.’

‘Where am I?’ Sherlock asked, looking around the chamber.

‘Tuck’s quarters.’

‘Why have we not gone home?’

‘We will. In time.’

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. ‘Am I dying?’                                                

‘No.’ _I love you_. _I cannot let you die. I will not._

‘You are squeezing my hand, John, as if I am about to leave you.’

Together they looked down at Sherlock’s long slender fingers clasped hard between John’s calloused palms and pressed against John’s chest. Sherlock’s weary smile did not reach his eyes. A tear ran down the side of his face and disappeared into his hair.

‘No.’ John tightened his fingers. He did not return Sherlock’s smile. His eyes stung and narrowed reflexively. Suddenly, it was too bright. The flaming yellow of the pyre, Sherlock’s skin too white, his hair too black, his blood too dark, too red, too thick. Too much of everything. Overwhelming. Frightening. John’s heart thundered in his chest, his eyes squeezed shut, lashes cool. Inexplicably damp.

Sherlock had to push the words out through his pain. ‘Tell me you love me’, he murmured, his eyelids fluttering with the effort of keeping his eyes open.

‘No.’  _I love you._ ‘Do not speak. You must conserve your strength.’ _I love you. I love you. I will say it to you every day. Whenever you ask. But not now. Now you must live._

‘No? Then I will say it’, he whispered. ‘I love you, John.’ A resigned smile ghosted over his red lips and disappeared as he closed his eyes, peaceful at last. ‘I will imagine you have said it to me.’ His chest rose and fell with his soft breaths. ‘Will you stay with me? Until…’ he asked, scarcely audible over the crackling flame.

‘Stop speaking.’  _I love you. Do not die. Do not leave me._

Sherlock’s breathing evened as John’s became erratic, airless sobs, disbelieving, dreadfully helpless. Blood oozed steadily in a thick stream of red from Sherlock’s side. The scenes played back in his mind and he relived, with a strange detachment, the past few minutes that had felt like an hour of horror.

Three men striking at Sherlock’s arms and legs, carving their blades into his skin while three others rushed John. John catching glimpses of Sherlock being attacked while fending off his own aggressors and the men attacking Gregory. Charles regaining conscious to rise to his feet, driving his knife deep into Sherlock. Sherlock tottering back and striking with his sword, slashing the King’s stomach. Charles clutching his stomach and bending over, collapsing to the ground. John’s unblinking eyes watching horrified as Sherlock sank to the ground.

John dispatching his assailants with manic energy, fueled by the desperate knowledge that Sherlock had fallen. Nimbly sidestepping strikes from the soldiers, going down on one knee and severing one man’s Achilles tendon from his foot, and rolling away to avoid the toppling behemoth who took down his comrades. Thrusting his blade into the groin of another fallen soldier, feeling the steel pierce the giving flesh and retreat to immediately slash the stomach of the third man. The loud clang of their armour hitting the stone floor echoing on the stone walls while John rushed into the fray.

The Sheriff disabling Will with a neat strike to his arm. The metal of Invaincu singing a shrill tune as it swung at Sherlock’s attackers. A flurry of strikes. Then an elegant twist of John’s wrist, the power of his forearms driving Invaincu into a guard’s stomach. The horrified shout from the guard as the front of his tunic grew dark. Fending off a blow from the Sheriff. Invaincu sliding out of the guard’s flesh and, in one long scythe-like sweep in reverse, splitting the skin along the Sheriff’s arm, slicing open the muscle. The Sheriff’s hand opening, sword clattering to the ground. A kick into the Sheriff’s stomach sending him hurtling to the ground. A second slash to his stomach. Blood blooming, lurid, like a crimson flower on the front of his bright yellow robe. _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._

Sudden pain shooting through John’s shoulder, a blow from the hilt of a soldier’s sword. Invaincu swinging conclusively at the man, opening his throat, ending him. The soldier’s scream attenuated to a gurgle as he tottered then crashed to the ground, flat on his back, a fount of blood bubbling from the gaping wound in his neck. Another shout. The Sheriff. One arm pressed to his stomach, crawling towards John, sword held out. A flick of Invaincu, the Sheriff’s sword flying from his weak fingers and skidding on the stone floor and hitting the wall. John’s blade plunging downward, piercing the Sheriff’s body, shoulder to neck. The principal triumvirate lying around them, unconscious but breathing. A dart sticking out luridly from the Abbot’s eye. Soldiers lying dead a little further away. Will holding Theo in his arms, pressing him into his chest, kissing his hair, crying. Gregory and Marian trying to rouse Much and Alan. _Sherlock._ _Sherlock._ _Sherlock._ John came back to himself.

Now Sherlock lay unconscious on Tuck’s bed, drenched in blood and sweat. _How is this possible? How could they have taken him down so easily? A swordsman as fine as Sherlock could have levelled them independently._ John stared at him, uncomprehending. Sherlock’s lips were turning greenish yellow. _Poison! They poisoned him!_ John’s fingers tightened around Sherlock’s, lips kissed Sherlock’s wrist. A droplet fell onto Sherlock’s hand and trembled there like a jewel. _Am I crying? Crying feels like dying. But he is not dead. He lives. He still lives. He will not die. I will not allow it._ John’s other hand rubbed weakly over his face, disbelieving and impotent, and slipped, heavy with misery, down to his neck.

Something scraped his palm, something he had forgotten was there. A cord on which hung an amulet.

 

\---------------

 **A/N** : The end is nigh! The last few chapters are taking shape and will be up after a short break. Meanwhile, I hope everyone who's following this story has enjoyed it so far and THANK YOU for all your kind words!! xxx


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered open. He shifted on the bed, groaning when minute shards of pain skittered like pinpricks along his back. He looked around the room, recognised it to be his bed chamber in Sussex, one that he had occupied only temporarily, using it to bathe before he met John in the forest where they realised they needed to be together and then spent the rest of their days in Sussex in John’s chamber, in his bed. The memory brought a soft smile to his lips that faded when he realized that, inexplicably, the chamber was empty of John. Immediately, he tried to sit up in his bed, grimacing against the dull ache that accompanied the stretching of limbs tight from two days of disuse.

‘Where is John?’ he asked his father who stood by a window.

‘Sherlock’, said Gregory. He sat on the bed beside his son and pressed down on his chest gently, pushed him back onto his pillow. ‘You almost died. You must rest. You must sleep.’

‘I have rested. I have slept. Now I am awake. Where is John?’

‘John… is not here.’

Sherlock was confused. ‘How can he not be here? _I_ am here.’

‘He had to leave. And your physician has advised that you had best not expend energy on anything apart from getting better.’

‘John is my physician. Why is he not here?’

Sherlock studied his father’s face. Gregory averted his gaze.

‘What is going on?’

‘Nothing, Sherlock. Please rest now.’

‘Father! What are you not telling me? I wish to see John.’

‘You cannot. Now rest.’

Gregory rose from the bed and left the chamber.

Sherlock waited until his father had left and then threw off the sheets. He was naked underneath. Slowly he pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet, gasping when he caught sight of his back in a mirror – long scars had formed over the brutal gashes he had sustained in the Abbey. But he was healing. He only felt a tightness along the scars forming over his healing wounds. The blemishes would fade in time. Wrapping a sheet around his body, he padded down the hallway to Theo’s room.

‘Theo’, he called out from outside, thumping the door with his fist. ‘Theo, open the door!’

The door opened. It was Will.

‘Sherlock! You are awake.’

‘Your perspicacity never ceases to amaze, Will. Where is Theo?’ Will’s large frame blocked the room from view.

Will only sighed. He seemed sad, very unlike the gregarious man everyone knew. ‘Such a ray of sunshine you are, Sherlock. Keep your voice down. Your brother is resting.’

‘Resting? Why? How lazy can Theo be?’

‘He took a _sword_ in his stomach, Sherlock! Do you not care? He is your brother!’

Will’s brusque words made Sherlock blink. He remembered. ‘Oh’, he said softly. ‘Forgive me, Will. My concerns have made me selfish. Is he alright?’

That seemed to mollify Will a little. ‘He will be. And what are you doing out of bed? You fared much worse than he did that night. I am surprised you are able to walk unassisted.’

‘I need to speak to him, Will. Please…’

‘Come in’, said Will, stepping aside to let Sherlock enter the room.

Theo emerged slowly from the enclosed bath chamber, pulling on a tunic. His legs were bare. One arm was pressed against his stomach.

‘Sherlock!’ said Theo. ‘You should not be on your feet.’

‘And neither should you. Get back in bed.’

An elder brother’s directive had to be obeyed. Theo obediently walked towards the bed, but with each painful step his breathing grew more laboured. Three long strides and Will had crossed the floor to his lover. He wrapped his arm around Theo’s waist.

‘Always in such a hurry to do whatever your brother says’, Will teased. ‘Why will you not do what I ask and get well?’

‘Because, until I am well, you will do whatever I ask.’

Will pressed a kiss to Theo’s temple. ‘Until you are well and after that. Forever’, he murmured into Theo’s hair. ‘Rest now.’ He cast a quick glance over Sherlock’s sheet, saw his naked feet. ‘Are you wearing any clothes?’

‘No’, Sherlock snapped as if the answer were obvious.

‘Why not?’

‘It would take too long.’

Will chuckled but Theo frowned.

‘You cannot walk around the castle naked, Sherlock. Will, give him a pair of my clothes from the closet’, said Theo. ‘And you should be resting. You nearly died.’

‘I am aware of that. Where is John?’

An awkward look passed between Theo and Will, followed by a stilted interval of silence.

‘Theo, I shall go help the uh- the stable-hand. You and your brother have matters of import to discuss. Once he is clothed again.’

‘Thank you, Will’, Theo smiled. ‘You will come back?’ he asked, licking his lips shyly.

‘Of course I will come back. You are here, are you not?’

Their affectionate exchange was not amusing to Sherlock at that moment. ‘Will,’ he growled, ‘either stay or go but whatever you do, do it quickly!’

Will chuckled and pressed a kiss to Theo’s hair, then left Theo’s bed chamber, closing the door behind him.

‘Where is John, Theo? Father will not tell me. He says I cannot see him.’

Theo bit his lower lip. ‘You cannot.’

‘I must see him! I need to see him. Why is he not here?’

‘Uncle John does not want to see you, Sherlock.’

Sherlock laughed. ‘That is preposterous.’

‘Father and he were altercating. I heard them shout at each other. They were speaking of you. Father begged Uncle John not to do what he was doing but he would not be swayed. Finally Father said he would never let you see him again.’

‘I do not believe you. Where is John?’

‘I do not know. But Father has been behaving strangely since the incident in the Abbey. He has disappeared for hours on end every day since. In fact, he leaves at sunrise and returns only past midnight. Something has aged him ten years in under a week.’

‘Where does he go?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Have you not asked Will to follow him? Is that not what you do best, pry into others’ matters?’

Theo flinched at Sherlock’s hurtful words. ‘Yes, Sherlock, that is what I should have done so that I could tell you where Uncle John is. I was hoping to follow him myself once I recovered’, he retorted.

Sherlock saw Theo’s eyes turn moist. ‘Forgive me, Theo. I am not myself.’

Theo nodded slowly but still turned away from his brother.

‘I need to send someone to Northumberland to see if John is there.’

‘He is not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Father told me.’

‘Then where is he?’ Theo’s silence rankled. ‘What are you keeping from me, Theo?’

‘Nothing, Sherlock. I truly do not know where he is, or I would tell you!’

‘I shall follow Father.’

‘But he has left already. Will saw him from the window. He rode into the woods.’

‘Do we keep hounds in the castle? I need a hound.’

‘A hound?’

‘A hunting hound. One that can pick up Father’s scent and lead me to him.’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Theo. The excitement was back in his tired eyes. ‘Take Redbeard.’

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. ‘Hounds do not have beards, Theo.’

‘This one does’, Theo smiled sweetly.

\---------------

A half hour later, mounted on his horse, Sherlock trotted behind the very aptly named Redbeard - a shaggy reddish-brown hound whose floppy ears drooped down to the loosely folded skin around his neck giving the impression of a beard. Redbeard sniffed at the ground, then lifted his head, pointed his snout eastwards and sniffed some more. He gave an excited bark and darted off into the woods. Sherlock tugged on the reins and his horse picked up the pace.

Redbeard sprinted ahead, crashing through the trees until he came to a clearing and stopped there, mouth open, tongue dripping sweat, looking over his shoulder for Sherlock to catch up. When Sherlock emerged from the woods, Redbeard looked at him and then at a small hut before them. Dismounting, Sherlock tethered his horse to a tree and walked up to the cottage. Sir Gregory’s horse was grazing in the small garden beside it. Sherlock pushed open the door.

Gregory lifted his head at the sound of the door opening. For a moment they looked at each other. Then, Gregory whispered, ‘What are you doing here? You should be resting.’

He sat by a bed placed in the middle of the room. Beyond him, Sherlock could only see legs covered by a sheet.

‘Who is that, on the bed?’ Sherlock asked, dreading the answer.

‘Leave, Sherlock.’

Sherlock took one leaden step forward. And another.

‘No. He does not want you here.’

Sherlock did not stop. An eternity passed before he reached the bed. Then his heart shattered.

John was stretched out on his side on the narrow pallet, his back to Gregory, the lower half of his body covered by a thin sheet. A plate with untouched food and a full pitcher of water sat on a small table. John was asleep or unconscious. Sherlock could not tell. But he was injured. His eyes were sunken in his face, the skin around them dark, cheeks pallid, drained of blood, of health. Drained of life. The sheet was folded at his waist, exposing his bare back swathed in bandages through which a dark fluid had seeped. Sherlock prayed that it was a salve, not blood, that the bandages had absorbed. He sank to his knees. His hand shook as it reached out to stroke John’s matted hair.

‘W- Who did this? When did this happen?’

‘You must leave, Sherlock.’

‘Father?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Who is responsible for this?’

‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘You will not like the answer. Leave now, Sherlock.’

‘I am going nowhere. When did this happen?’

‘After he left the Abbey.’

‘Why does he not eat?’

‘He has no desire to eat.’

‘Why would you not tell me, Father?’ Sherlock asked softly. His voice shook as much as his hands. His forehead dropped to the mattress. Silent sobs racked his body. ‘You should have told me.’

‘He does not want you to know. He does not want you here. And I swore to him I would not let him see you. You must leave, Sherlock. Or you will make a liar of me.’

‘Is _that_ what concerns you most at this moment?’

‘It is.’

‘Then I shall do neither.’ He rose to his feet and without another word, he left the cottage and rode back to Sussex Castle.

\-------------

The next day, when Gregory returned to the cottage, a woman in a full-length _abaya_ was attending to John. She looked at Gregory through the netting in her _burqa_ with unmistakable green eyes.

 _Oh lord, Sherlock._ ‘Do you think he will not know?’ Gregory asked.

‘He will not, if you do not tell him.’

‘What do you hope to achieve by doing this?’

‘He will not see me and I will not leave.’

Gregory shook his head. ‘You are the two most stubborn men I have ever known. I do not know what to do with the both of you.’

‘Do nothing. It will be all right.’

‘All right? He is dying!’

Gregory’s frustrations were bursting out of him but Sherlock was strangely calm.

‘He was. But I am here now. I will not let him.’

‘He is too far gone, Sherlock! You know that! He cannot be saved.’

‘And that, Father, is where you are wrong.’

\--------------

John blinked his eyes open. _I should not still be alive._ He lifted a hand and touched his face. His cheek felt smooth. Clean. Someone had shaved his facial hair. His eyes dragged across the room and settled on a portly hooded figure in black leaning over the table, softly tapping a pestle in a mortar, crushing and grinding something.

‘Who are you?’ he rasped.

The head lifted and turned to him.

‘Tuck!’

‘Forgive me, John’, came Tuck’s response, more soft breath than voice. ‘I did not mean to startle you. Sir Gregory called on me to assist in your recovery.’

‘My recovery?’ John huffed. ‘Who says I am recovering?’

‘You are awake, are you not? I think that qualifies as recovering.’

‘Why you? Why did Gregory send for you?’

‘Because you refused to see Sherlock. Why do you not wish to see him, John?’

The sound of that name and the memories that came with it hurt more than the wounds he had sustained on his back. ‘I do not wish to speak about him, Tuck.’

‘Forgive me. That was not his reason.’

‘Then why?’

‘I am applying Eastern healing techniques that work on the psyche as much as on the body. Sir Gregory believes they might be more effective than our own more… empirical methods.’

‘Where did you learn the ways of the East?’

‘I was introduced to them in the Holy Land and am still learning’, said Tuck. Then he added, mysteriously, ‘I have help. Do not worry yourself about how you will get better. I am certain that you will.’

‘You have help? From whom?’

‘An apprentice with greater knowledge of the Eastern ways than I possess. Rest now, John’, said Tuck, hurriedly. John was more alert than he had expected and his questions were becoming troublesome.

‘Wait, Tuck. Who is this apprentice?’

‘Just someone I consult when I need guidance. I must go into the woods to pick certain herbs for your salve. I shall be back within the hour.’

‘Tuck-’, John called out but the Friar had already left the cottage. He realised he had not asked Tuck if he was unhurt in the aftermath of the confrontation at the Abbey. Pressure in his bladder directed his thoughts downwards. ‘I need to relieve myself’, he sighed to the empty room. ‘How am I to get out of this bed?’

At once, a figure in a full-length black _abaya_ appeared in the room. A burqa covered the speaker’s face. ‘May I help you, my lord?’ It was a woman and she spoke English slowly and with a lovely Middle Eastern lilt, breathy and singsong.

‘Who are you?’

‘Brother Tuck’s apprentice, my lord.’

‘What are you called?’

‘Rubina.’

‘Rubina… Are you-?'

‘Yes, my lord. I am a Saracen. Brother Tuck saved me from being violated by Christian soldiers and sold to the flesh trade in Afula. He brought me back to Britain and kept me safe in Titchfield. I am a servant in Titchfield Convent, attending to the needs of the nuns there.’

‘Are you teaching Tuck your healing methods?’

‘Yes, my lord. You will be well soon.’

‘You seem very certain of your skills.’

‘I have reason to be.’

‘It will not work. I am dying’, said John, a simple statement of fact.

‘You are far too convinced of your own imminent mortality. Give my methods a chance’, said the woman.

‘Your words are wise but your voice is young.’

‘My lord is very observant. And quite correct.’ Rubina paused. Then, ‘You see? You are recovering already.’ There was mischief in that afterthought.

John imagined Rubina was smiling at him behind her _burqa_. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty, my lord.’

‘Twenty’, John chuckled sadly. ‘All right, you may try your methods.’ He closed his eyes.

Rubina’s head held still, pointed at John. John wondered what she observed in him.

Then she spoke, so quiet it was barely louder than a whisper. ‘I already have.’

John blinked. He willed away the qualm knocking inside his head. ‘I need to… um…’

‘Yes, my lord, I heard you state your needs aloud. Permit me to help.’

'I- uh, I cannot.'

‘Is it because I am a woman?'

'Yes. When will Tuck return?’

‘Not soon enough, my lord’, said Rubina. She brought a large, deep receptacle to John. ‘Please use this and leave it on the floor under the bed. I will dispose of it later.’

‘No…I- cannot.’

‘This is not a matter for shame, my lord. In the convent, I have attended to male convalescents who were far more incapable of tending to themselves. Your comfort and your recovery are more important than any misplaced feelings of propriety. Please avail of this vessel. I shall return shortly.’

With that Rubina left the cottage. John emptied his bladder with a long sigh, placed the filled repository under the bed and fell back on the coarse mattress. He stared at the ceiling. It was a long moment before he realised, with a gasp, that he was lying on his back and that the pain from his wounds was markedly reduced. Was he, in fact, recovering? _No, it cannot be! Not after what I did. What I have done cannot be undone._

\----------------

When John opened his eyes, Gregory was sitting beside him.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Miraculously, I feel better.’

‘Will you not see him? He asks to see you. Every day.’

‘No, Gregory.’

‘You are better, John! And you will be fully recovered soon. Why will you not see him?’

‘Because I _know_ this recovery is temporary. It has to be! Because if it is not, he... No. There is no other way.’

‘He thinks you-’

‘Stop, Gregory. I wish to forget him. It is best that he forget me, too.’

The two men went silent for a moment.

Then John asked, ‘Did you give it to him?’

‘No.’

‘You have had it since the incident at the Abbey! Give it to him. Please.’

‘You know what it will do to him.’

‘It is the only way.’

‘It will _break_ him, John.’

‘If you will not give it to him, I will have it delivered some other way. Is it on your person?’

‘In my pocket’, said Gregory.

‘Let me have it.’

‘No.’

‘Gregory-’

‘No. It should be burned.’

A wooden bowl clattered behind them.

‘Rubina!’ John gasped. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘Forgive me, my lords’, Rubina muttered and fled the cottage.

\---------------

Gregory had just exited the cottage when Sherlock, dressed as Rubina, accosted him. His _burqa_ was lifted up.

‘What were you supposed to give me, Father?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing.’

‘What is it? Why do you keep secrets from me? Why does John want to forget me? Why does he want me broken?’ His eyes were red from lack of sleep and unshed tears.

Gregory caressed his hair. His gaze grew soft, compassionate. ‘I love you, Sherlock. No matter happens, I love you, Theo loves you, your friends love you and we always will. You are loved, Sherlock. Never forget that.’

At any other time, Sherlock would have appreciated the ringing endorsement, but now it was simply bewildering. ‘Why do you say this now? And why like this?’

‘It seemed the right time.’ Gregory sighed. ‘I should return to the castle. Will you be back by sundown?’

‘No. I will stay with John tonight. He is still weak. But I know he will be better soon.’

Gregory smiled at his son’s misguided confidence but there was sadness in his eyes. ‘With you caring for him, he has no option but to get better.’

In an uncharacteristically demonstrative gesture, Sherlock threw his arms around his father’s waist and embraced him tightly.

Gregory held his son. ‘You are a good son, Sherlock. You are a good man.’ Then they separated, he mounted his horse and rode off.

Sherlock waited until Gregory’s horse disappeared over the hill before unfolding the parchment he had extracted from his father’s pocket. It was his portrait created by the artist in Sha’ab. Sufyan must have given it to John. Sherlock’s soft smile gradually dissolved into a frown. At the bottom of the portrait was something written in John’s hand. In Arabic.

 _lm 'aeadd 'astatie 'an 'ahabbak mithlak tastahiqq 'ann teshq . yjb 'an 'atruk lakum marratan 'ukhraa . hadhih almarrat 'ana ln yaeud ._ (I can no longer love you like you deserve to be loved. I must leave you again. This time I am not coming back.)

Sherlock stared at John’s words uncomprehendingly. Then he read them, over and over. When the tenth reading yielded no further insight, he lifted his eyes and gazed into the distance. He did not understand the note. John had written it in the Abbey, or before. Yet he had sat beside Sherlock, holding his hand, knowing that he would eventually leave Sherlock.

How could John leave him? He loved him. He had seen it in John’s eyes, so open to him, like clear pools of blue through which he could see into the depths of John’s soul. Yet the note was in his hands, as undeniable as the disturbing numbness spreading inside him now. His chest had felt heavy when he had first seen John lying on the bed. Now it was an empty cage. It ached.

He examined the emptiness. What had been a heart beating with love for John had been rendered a bruised, barren wasteland of emotion. By John. He felt an abhorrence for all sentiment growing inside him. Sentiment had the power to hurt, to destroy. He had given John that power. And he was suffering, firsthand, its terrible devastation. In under a minute, with a few words, John had broken his heart. No, he corrected himself. John had done nothing. That day, he had not told Sherlock that he loved him. The fault lay in Sherlock. He had allowed his heart to be broken. Never again.

Frowning slightly, Sherlock wiped away the tears streaming down his cheeks. So roughly his cheeks turned red in the process. He pulled the burqa down, concealing his face, and went back inside.

\-----------------

Within days, John was able to walk without holding on to Gregory. It was nothing short of a miracle. Twelve days had passed and he was still alive. Something or someone had tilted the scales of Fate in his favour. A new vigour flowed through his body. His wounds were healing well. Breathing was no longer a painful act. Gregory sat beside the bed while he paced the floor of the cottage. He wanted to see Sherlock. He needed to see him again. Rubina was absent. In fact, Rubina had been absent for two days. As had Tuck.

‘Where is Rubina?’

Gregory blinked.

‘I wished to thank her but have not seen her for a few days. I have not seen Tuck either.’

‘I will thank them for you, John, but their services were required in Titchfield and they had to return. Are you ready to journey to Northumberland? I will accompany you, of course.’

‘I shall return, Gregory. But…it appears you are in a hurry for me to leave.’

‘It is best that you do, John.’

‘I should like to see Sherlock again. Is he… alright?’

‘He is, John. He is fully recovered. Physically.’

‘Good. Good. I wish to see him.’

‘I would advise against it.’

‘Why?’

‘He is a hollow shell of his former self.’

‘Did you give him my note?’

‘No. But as I do not have it anymore, I suspect he must have taken it from me.’

John would not be refused. ‘It does not matter now. I am not dying anymore.’

‘John… he is no more than a shadow of himself. I fear he will not be as welcoming of you as you might wish.’

John nodded. ‘That is my doing and I shall seek his forgiveness, but Gregory, I need to see him! Do not deny me one chance to set things right again.’

Gregory sighed. He knew the reception that awaited his best friend.

\-------------------------

Sherlock pushed open the door to the library in Sussex Castle. ‘You wished to see me, Father?’ he said to Gregory. Then his eyes fell on another man, sitting in the chair beside his father.

‘Sherlock’, said John, tentative, trembling.

His joy lit his eyes up like the sun was shining behind them. But staring at him was a dead, green gaze, devoid of acknowledgement, devoid of the welcome he expected to see in them. He rose to his feet.

Gregory cleared his throat and stepped towards the door. ‘Let me see what mischief Theo is conjuring with Will’, he said and left the library, shutting the door softly behind him.

‘Sherlock… you are well.’

‘I have matters to attend to. With your leave’, he said and turned around. But a hand had closed around his bicep.

‘Unhand me.’

‘Sherlock.’ He stroked Sherlock’s back. ‘I know you read my note but will you give me the chance to explain?’

‘Your touch is inappropriate. In fact’, Sherlock said, ‘it repulses me.’

The acidulous words burned through John. He withdrew his hand, fingers curled into a fist. Still, he tried. ‘Will you not allow me to -?’

Sherlock cut him off. ‘Why are you here?’

John blinked. ‘I do not understand. I thought that...’, he cleared his throat. ‘I thought you would be happy to see me.’

‘You said you would not be back. Yet here you are.’

‘I need to explain-’

‘No further explanation is necessary. Your note was quite clear. I recall you burned your note the last time. I have saved you that trouble this time. I burned it myself.’

‘Forgive me, Sherlock. I know I hurt you. But I never expected to live and-’

‘And I should never have expected your affections for me to endure. Clearly, I am not deserving of them. But you, my lord, are not deserving of my forgiveness. Not again.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘You lied to me.’ The accusation, delivered tonelessly, was chilling.

‘I did not.’

Sherlock sniffed, disbelieving. ‘Have you forgotten what you said to me?’

John shook his head. ‘No- no, I have not forgotten. I said I would never leave you again.’

‘Yet you did. You lied.’

 _But that is not all I said. Have you forgotten?_ ‘Sherlock, I did not lie to you. I would never lie to you.’

‘And you just lied again!’ Sherlock’s lips twisted in pain. ‘May I speak plainly?’

‘Always.’

‘Then please believe me when I say this.’ His palms came together, fingers pressed against his lips. He drew in a breath. Breathed out. Then he lowered his hands.

‘I wish never to see you again, Sir John.’ His words were perfectly enunciated, leaving no doubt about their authenticity. ‘This is not an impassioned statement, it is the truth. And I will ensure you never need see me again either. Should our paths cross out of necessity, I expect we will be able to muster a few civil words for each other. Beyond that, the past is best forgotten–’

‘I will never forget.’

Sherlock made a caustic sound. ‘You might surprise yourself.’

John swallowed. ‘Will you- will you not hear what I have to say?’

‘I do not wish to hear or read another word from you.’

‘Sherlock.’

‘Please stop!’

John’s helpless gaze roamed around the room. _This is all wrong. I did not expect it to go this way._ ‘Do you hate me?’

‘No. I do not hate you. Truly’, said Sherlock, looking right at John. Through him. ‘I feel nothing for you.’

 


	29. Chapter 29

Kenilworth Castle had come alive with preparations for the coronation of Marian as Queen of Britain and the public hanging of James, King Charles and the Sheriff. Thousands of Londoners gathered outside the castle to watch the proceedings. The Archbishop had already convened an assembly of Britain’s nobility in the Great Hall and declared Marian the rightful heir to the throne of Britain as the ætheling daughter of Richard, the Lionheart. They heard him swear, in the name of the Lord, that he had heard the confessions of the accused and received incontrovertible proof of Marian’s true lineage.

Nonetheless, Marian’s claim to the throne had met with more than a few murmurs of dissent, not only because of the illegitimacy of her birth but also the fact that she was a woman. A voluble debate ensued. The Archbishop reminded the nobles that Gregory was Richard’s childhood friend and John was his second cousin and one of his most trusted associates. And yet, repeated endorsements and compelling arguments from John and Gregory were proving insufficient to sway the nobles in Marian’s favour.

It was then that a knock sounded on the door and Marian entered the chamber.

A hush fell over the assembly. The nobles shifted as a group and arrayed themselves into a semi-circle around her. John, Gregory and the Archbishop moved to stand beside her. They faced each other as two groups, four against thirty. Marian was the lone bright figure in the room, a young girl of twenty-one, facing an unreceptive throng of older and immensely powerful nobles. Her red tresses cascaded down her back. Despite the simplicity of her white gown, her innate regality radiated across the room, like the rich, warm glow from a torchlight. When she spoke, her voice was calm, her words clear and carefully paced. She spoke to the nobles about her mother, of the affection she had received from her foster father. She recounted the events of the past weeks and how John, Gregory and their friends had helped save her from being sacrificed to Lucifer by King Charles.

‘I have no desire for omnipotence’, she said. ‘I do not covet power for the sake of power. However, if as Queen, I am able to serve the people of this great land and bring peace and prosperity to the nation, if I can deepen relations with our allies and forge new treaties with our enemies, I would be fulfilling my father’s legacy. If you believe I am my father’s daughter and that I am fit to ascend the throne of Britain, I will be honoured to serve this land. If not, I will return to Nivernais, to my mother and my ordinary life. I am certain the collective wisdom in this room will make a decision that is in the best interests of Britain.’

She drew her gaze across the assembly, holding each noble’s gaze for a moment to establish a direct connection. Then she turned around and exited the Great Hall, softly shutting the door behind her. A half hour later, John, Gregory and the Archbishop emerged and found Marian waiting outside. Sherlock, Theo and Will were with her.

The Archbishop approached her. He smiled. ‘My lady, Britain will have a Queen’, he said.

Marian’s face lit up. Will squeezed Theo’s shoulders. Sherlock looked at Gregory. Gregory looked at John. John drew in a deep breath. He leaned close to Gregory, murmured something and then left.

\------------------

Village folk congregated around the three men, hurling invectives at them, pelting them with foul-smelling, rotting vegetables and spitting on the ground as they were dragged, heads hanging in humiliation, through the throng to the gallows. Given the gravity of the charges and the identity of the accused, the Archbishop took over the duties of the herald to read out their crimes and sentence them to the gibbet. Dark hoods were pulled over the three men’s heads, nooses placed around their necks and the stools on which they stood kicked out from under them in sequence. The ropes snapped tight around their necks and they dangled there, bodies shaking, legs kicking helplessly, until their lives were snuffed out. A hush fell over the crowd when the bodies finally stopped jerking and swung, desultory and heavy, at the end of their ropes.

The bodies were lowered to the ground and taken away in a horse cart to be disposed of in the manner of common criminals. The crowd’s enthusiasm had quietened to a sombre sibilance; they parted slowly around the Archbishop as he crossed the courtyard and ascended the steps leading to the Great Hall. The large doors opened and Marian stepped out. For a moment, the sea of citizens watching her expectantly stole her breath.

The Archbishop noticed. He leaned towards her. ‘It will be all right, my lady. They loved your father and they will love you.’

She nodded a few times.

Straightening, the Archbishop addressed his next words to the waiting crowd.

‘Today,’ he said, his voice ringing out, ‘our nation is once again leaderless. But not for long. Lady Marian,’ he said, with a respectful nod in her direction, ‘daughter of King Richard, the Lionheart and Lady Miranda of Nivernais, is to be crowned Queen of Britain in three days. She is as deserving of your love and your loyalty as her father was.’ He paused and drew his gaze over the thousands of heads, waiting. ‘Will you, citizens of our great land, pledge your allegiance to your queen?’

This time, the public erupted in joy and broke out in a chorus of ‘God save the Queen’. Marian waved to them, her people, her eyes welling, and they gave her, with their cheers and applause, the love and respect she commanded as their Queen.

Lady Marian was crowned Queen of Britain. Gregory, Sherlock, Theo and the Merry Men were all in attendance. John was conspicuously absent.

When the week-long festivities concluded, Gregory, Sherlock and Theo returned to Sussex. Will, Much and Alan went with them, Will because that was where Theo would be, and Much and Alan because that was where Will and Sherlock would be. John’s name was diligently avoided in conversation. But Gregory would leave Sussex on week-long visits which he would not discuss with his sons. Sherlock had no doubt where his father was headed.

Sherlock divided his waking hours between the library, riding his horse and wandering through the townships of Sussex. He exchanged very few words with Gregory and Theo and even fewer with his friends. He went days without eating, subsisting on water. Some evenings, he succumbed to the lure of mead which quenched, but only temporarily, his thirsting spirit. Gregory exercised his paternal rights to order his son to eat once in a while.

A deep melancholy had enveloped Sherlock, born of the abject loneliness that subsumed his every waking minute. Nights brought with them a similar vacancy of purpose. He lay awake long after Sussex Castle had retired, staring at the ceiling of his bedchamber, thinking of the woods beyond the castle where he had known his greatest happiness.

But his thoughts would then take him to that day when, standing outside the cottage, he had read John’s farewell and his happiness had shattered. A tiny but insistent qualm remained about his interpretation of John’s words. After all, John had come back to him. The rational side of him told him to look deeper, to revisit those words but his still-grieving heart had crushed every last bit of objectivity and, in the privacy of his chamber, he would allow his tears to flow. When the sun rose in the morning, he was again his stoic self.

Theo watched his brother gradually waste away into a ghost of his former self. He grew profoundly concerned for Sherlock. Attempts to get Sherlock to share his sadness with him were met with stony silence or a trenchant remark about Theo’s intrusive ways. Gregory tried to break through to his son but was equally unsuccessful. One day, after nightfall, Theo marched into Sherlock’s chamber.

‘Sherlock.’

‘Theo’, said Sherlock, taken aback by his brother’s unexpected visit. ‘What is it?’

‘This has to stop.’

‘What has to stop?’

‘You. Your… whatever it is you are doing.’

‘What am I doing?’

‘Grieving.’

‘Where is Will?’

‘Wha- why?’

‘I want him to take you away’, said Sherlock, turning his back to his brother. ‘You are annoying me.’

‘Stop this, Sherlock!’

‘There is nothing to stop. Not anymore. You should go to bed. It is late.’

‘I do not care! You have to go to him.’

‘I do not know what you mean, Theo, or whom. Please, I should like to be alone.’

‘Not tonight.’ Theo grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘You are going to speak to me, brother to brother, about what is eating you from the inside.’

Sherlock tossed his head and shook his shoulders free of his brother’s grasp. ‘You have been reading far too many romantic texts, brother. “Sleep more, read less” is the advice I would give you.’

‘I am not here to seek your advice, Sherlock, but to give it. I am younger than you but even I can see that you are on a path of self-destruction. And for a reason that can very simply be reconciled.’

Sherlock faced him again. An eyebrow lifted slowly. ‘Is that so?’

Theo nodded emphatically.

Sherlock watched his brother through half-lidded eyes. ‘Then enlighten me, brother.’

Theo blinked. ‘I know- you think of me as meddlesome and annoying but there is something you should know. And see.’ Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a rolled parchment. He held it in his fist.

‘What is that?’

‘That day in the Abbey, when you were dying, Uncle John and Father had taken you to Tuck’s quarters. Will brought me to an adjoining chamber. Father had to leave to attend the Queen but Uncle John remained in the chamber with you. He must not have known Will and I were next door. When Father returned, they began to argue loudly. Their voices woke me. Will and I stayed quiet while they spoke about you. Eventually, they calmed down. Father sound resigned. They must have come to some kind of understanding. I heard the door close. An hour must have passed before it opened again. We heard movement. Then Father came in to ask Will to carry me down to a carriage to take us all back to Sussex. Will stepped into Tuck’s chambers to see if they needed assistance carrying you down, the chamber was empty.’

Theo opened his fist and held out his hand to Sherlock. ‘Will gave this to me today. He found it lying on the floor in Tuck’s chamber. He did not think it was important and had forgotten that he had it. It is written in Arabic. I cannot understand it. But you might.’

‘Theo…’

‘Read it, Sherlock. Perhaps it has the answers you seek, perhaps it does not. And if not, then you would be a prize fool not to go to him and demand answers. Because there _must_ have been a reason beyond his control for him to have done what he did.’

With that, he turned on his heel and reached for Sherlock’s door.

‘Where are you going?’

Theo looked over his shoulder and threw Sherlock a smile. ‘To find Will. You can be annoying, too.’

Sherlock chuckled sadly. ‘You are a good brother, Theo.’

Theo smiled. ‘I always knew that. And now you do, too.’ He waited at the door.

\-----------

The door shut softly behind Theo. Sherlock sank into an armchair and stared at the parchment on his palm. He knew his search for answers was at an end, yet fear gripped his heart. With shaking fingers he rolled the parchment open. Black Arabic letters were written on it. _No, not written_ , he thought. _Burned onto it_. This was not any man’s doing. This was Fate’s doing. He read the words.

His eyes flew up and stared out of the window into the obscure night that enveloped the land. A wick of realisation caught fire inside him and glimmered, a small flickering flame that grew in intensity into blazing revelation. The parchment fell from his hands and floated to the ground. His eyes stung. _John._

\----------------------

Sherlock pushed open the doors to the library. Gregory sat in a chair, facing the door.

‘Father! I must go to him!’

A red head appeared over the edge of the chair facing his father. The seated figure rose from the chair and turned to Sherlock.

‘Your Majesty’, Sherlock said, beholding Queen Marian. At once, he went down on one knee.

‘Rise, Master Sherlock. It is pleasing to see you again.’

Sherlock rose to his feet.

‘Are you well?’ Marian asked. ‘You seem… so sad.’

Sherlock lifted his eyes. ‘I- have not been well, Your Majesty’, he admitted. ‘But I will be.’

They exchanged a look of understanding.

‘Yes, you will be’, she said with a faint smile. ‘Sir Gregory, Master Sherlock, I require your assistance.’

‘You have but to command us, Your Majesty’, said Gregory.

‘I wish to meet with Emperor Saladin.’

Gregory’s mouth dropped open. ‘Saladin!’

‘You are his sister’s husband, Sir Gregory, and he is your uncle, Master Sherlock. He will not deny you both an audience. Only, this time, I will accompany you.’

‘Your Majesty, surely you have been informed of our battles with Saladin’s armies. He has laid siege to Acre. A month ago, we lost control of Ascalon and half the Negev. It is not safe for the Queen of Britain to journey to the Holy Land in times of such unrest.’

‘And yet Master Sherlock visited Damascus and travelled safely through Saracen lands to return to Britain.’

‘Sherlock had help, Your Majesty.’

‘Sir John, I know. And I will have you and your son to accompany me to Damascus and back.’

‘Your Majesty-’

‘Sir Gregory’, she interjected. ‘You were my father’s closest friend. May I not expect the same loyalty from you?’

‘My family and I will be loyal to you until our last breath, Your Majesty.’

‘Then accompany me to Damascus.’ She sighed. ‘This fighting is utterly unnecessary.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘It is unconscionable that innocent lives are lost every day in a fight over a piece of land. I wish to propose a treaty to Emperor Saladin. And I need your help to convince him to see me and hear my proposal.’

Gregory smiled, admiration blooming in his eyes. ‘Your Majesty, Britain could not have found a better ruler.’

She smiled back, grateful for his endorsement. Suddenly she looked very young, very inexperienced.

‘Thank you, Sir Gregory. There is one more thing.’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘I am in need of advisors I can trust. In London. I know I will need counsel in matters of governance and politics and military engagements. My father had Uncle Mycroft. When we return, would you be willing to divide your days between London and Sussex?’ Here gaze shifted to Sherlock. Then, ‘Sir John has graciously acceded to my request to serve in my court as Advisor and also travel with me to Damascus.’ She held Sherlock’s gaze a moment longer, then looked at Gregory. ‘Would you be agreeable as well, Sir Gregory?’

‘Your Majesty, it would be my honour to accompany you to Damascus and serve in your court.’

‘You have my gratitude, Sir Gregory. We shall depart for Damascus in two days. I shall expect you in London tomorrow.’

‘Very well, your Majesty.’

\-----------------

It took Marian, Gregory, Sherlock and the Queen’s coterie nine days of sailing followed by three days of riding on horseback to make the journey from London to Syria. Sherlock’s attempts to infer why John had not travelled with them were frustratingly futile. He shifted his efforts towards calculating how soon he could leave Damascus, return to England and make his way directly to Northumberland.

Finally they arrived. Damascus. The seat of the Saracen Empire.

The Sultan’s palace was a sprawling masterpiece of Saracen architecture. The central marble dome was peaked and plated, at its tip, in pure gold. Long hallways of equal length extended from the cupola to the left and the right, their roofs resting like outstretched arms on a bed of marble columns. At the tips of these stone arms were tall minarets that soared towards the heavens, their height exactly matching that of the central arched vault. Directly below the dome at ground level was a pair of tall doors. Down the middle of each door was an arched vertical panel plated with gold on which was carved an intricate _girih_ pattern. The walls beside the doors were covered with stucco arabesques of birds, leaves and tendrils, curled around small semi-precious stones embedded in the plaster, all interwoven into a single, continuous configuration of breathtaking, glittering beauty.

‘This is exquisite’, said Marian.

Gregory was about to take hold of the large knocker when the doors opened. An immense hall, as broad as it was long, lay before them. Marian entered first, followed by Gregory and Sherlock, and then her soldiers.

The Emperor of the Middle East watched them from a large bejeweled throne at the head of the hall.

‘Welcome, Your Majesty’, said the graying ruler who was seated, cross-legged, on a velvet cushion on his throne. A black silk turban covered his hair. His hands gently clasped the curved marble armrests. Rings of rubies and sapphires adorned his fingers. When his visitors stopped in the middle of hall, he uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet, pushing them into the leather slip-on shoes decorated with tiny precious stones and gold and red filigree. His deep blue silk robe flowed down to the ground. He took a few steps in their direction and nodded, waiting for them to approach.

Marian was attired in an emerald green gown made of heavy velvet and boasting embroidered lace and gems over her bust. A cape of darker green offered a stark contrast with her lovely red tresses. She approached the Emperor with slow steps that conveyed all the dignity expected of the monarch of Britain.

Saladin greeted her with a low bow. ‘It is my honour to welcome the Queen of Britain to my home.’

Marian dipped her head. ‘The honour is ours, Sultan, and we thank you for acceding to this exchange.’ She turned slightly and gestured to Gregory and Sherlock. ‘I am accompanied by two of my most trusted friends.’

‘I noticed’, smiled the Sultan. ‘And I know why you brought these particular men with you.’

Marian smiled in understanding. ‘That is one reason they are here, Sultan. But they are truly among my most trusted friends. I owe them my life. They restored the throne of Britain to the lineage of Richard, the Lionheart.’

‘You are blessed with good friends, Your Majesty.’ Saladin smiled at Sherlock. ‘Habibi’, he said softly to his nephew and raised his arms.

‘ _Em_!’ (uncle) said Sherlock, breaking royal protocol and hurrying towards his uncle.

‘ _Habibi, fa'innah yansharih qalbi 'ann 'arak marratan 'ukhraa ._ ’ (It gladdens my heart to see you again.) Saladin embraced Sherlock and pulled his head down to kiss his forehead. ‘You look sad, my boy’, he said. ‘Your eyes are forlorn.’

‘It is nothing, Uncle.’

‘I think I know what it is, but I also think you will be all right.’

Sherlock studied his uncle’s face.

‘Your loneliness is at an end’, said Saladin.

‘ _Em_ … I do not understand.’

‘You will. Sooner than you realise. Now, let me greet your father.’ He walked around Sherlock and faced Gregory.

‘ _Shaqiq alzzawj_ ’, (brother-in-law) he said. ‘It is good to see you, Gregory. It has been a while.’

‘Too long, Sultan’, said Gregory, bowing respectfully to Samaarah’s brother.

‘She loved you till the end.’

‘And I loved her. I always will. But I did not know about- ’, he shifted his eyes to Sherlock, ‘our son. I would never have allowed her to leave me. I did not know. I truly did not.’

‘I know, Gregory. And she knew that, too. She told me you were unwilling to part with her till the end. But Life took care of you both. She returned to her roots and her family. You found another wife who gave you another son.’

‘He is a good boy, my Theo. He would have wanted to be here.’

‘And therefore, he is.’

Gregory gave Saladin a questioning look.

‘Both your sons are here.’

‘Sultan, I -.’

‘Fate works in mysterious ways, Gregory. It was Fate’s plan for Sherlock to be reunited with you through your brother-in-law. But he is so much more than that, so much more than your sister’s husband, is he not? He is Fate’s _rasul_ (messenger). For saving my nephew, he is as a _mal’ak_ (angel) to me. But for him, Sherlock would-’, he stopped, choking on his own emotion.

‘ _Em_. Nothing happened to me. I was unharmed.’

‘Because of him! You foolish boy. I wanted to have my men escort you to Acre, but you are too headstrong for your own good. You evaded them and they lost you.’

Saladin’s fond admonishment brought a smile to Sherlock’s lips. He embraced his uncle again. ‘ _Em_. I am all right.’

‘You very nearly were not!’ Saladin huffed. ‘Sufyan sent word of your visit and your foolhardy plan to outwit the men who wanted you dead. He told me about your companion. Still, I had Haidar follow you to Acre and watch you board the ship back to Britain. The night I received his missive was the first night I had slept in a month.’

‘ _Em_ , I am sorry for causing you so much worry.’

‘You should be.’

‘Do you forgive me?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘No’, Sherlock smiled.

‘Then I forgive you’, Saladin smiled back, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. ‘You have a good son, Gregory’, he said. ‘You have two good sons.’

‘Sultan, you said both my sons are here. But Theo did not travel with us.’

‘Not with you, but he came with Sir John.’

‘Is- is Sir John here?’ Sherlock asked softly.

Saladin’s eyes twinkled. ‘I see news of your brother brings you great joy.’ He grinned when Sherlock’s cheeks flushed a deep red. ‘Sir John and your brother are both here. Fair winds on the seas brought them here yesterday evening. Theodore is a sprightly young man. And Sir John… he is everything I expected. And more.’

Gregory nodded. ‘He is my best friend, the best man I know.’ Noticing the Sultan’s affronted rising eyebrows, he hastily clarified, ‘In Britain.’

Saladin laughed. ‘I jest, Gregory. It is good to be surrounded by family again. Your Majesty, I apologise that you have had to endure this protracted reunion. Come, let us retire to my study where we may speak at leisure.’


	30. Chapter 30

John was already in the library with Theo when they entered. He knelt before Marian and kissed her hand, embraced Gregory and nodded in Sherlock’s direction but did not meet his gaze. He did not look at Sherlock again.

‘Sultan’, said Marian, when they were seated comfortably in Saladin’s lavish armchairs. ‘I thank you again for granting me this audience.’

‘It takes a very brave Briton to venture into the heart of the Saracen Empire, my lady. It is my privilege to play host to the monarch of the British Empire. What is it that brought you all this distance to my home?’

‘I wish to put an end to the fighting between Christian and Saracen pilgrims.’ Marian said it simply, with an even tone, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Saladin laughed. ‘My lady, you amaze me.’

Marian waited.

‘You are as shrewd a politician as the best leaders I have met.’

‘I fear I am not seized of your meaning, Sultan, for I am not at all aware of employing shrewdness.’

‘You take your first step on the road to peace with the pilgrims. What better way to propose a truce than to begin with something that unites both our peoples? Our faith.’

Marian unconsciously flashed a look at John’s knees where he sat beside her and Sherlock immediately knew her next words had been John’s counsel.

‘This land is holy to both Christians and Saracens, Sultan. Our faith is similar but we worship different gods. And even then, it is our religious leaders who tell us our gods are separate and we believe them. And so we fight. For political supremacy in what should be a place of peace and unity. War does not belong in a place of worship.’

Saladin leaned back in his armchair. He smiled admiringly at Marian. ‘What do you propose, my lady?’

Marian drew in a deep breath through her nose. This time, she openly looked at Gregory and John who smiled back at her.

Then, to Saladin she said, ‘I propose the suspension of all encumbrances on men, women and children who identify themselves as pilgrims, no matter their religion. I propose a cessation of the collection of all forms of tribute and tolls for passage through the Holy Land, free access to the Holy Sepulchre and free exchange or sale of objects. I propose joint, _peaceful_ Saracen and Christian control of Acre and Haifa, the two largest gateways to the Holy Land. If you think it would help maintain peace, separate ports of entry could be constructed in each city. And finally, I propose that both Christian and Saracen armies withdraw from Ascalon for a period of three years. It has borne too much bloodshed and must be given a chance to heal itself.’

‘And after three years?’

‘Whichever army has the greater power may peacefully take control of Ascalon.’

‘That is still a lot for the Saracens to give up. Will Britain make similar concessions?’

‘Britain will return Ramalah and Arsuf to you. My soldiers will cease all unprovoked attacks on Saracens, raising their weapons only in defence our people. Britain will cease all hostilities in Jerusalem. My soldiers will not desecrate another Saracen site, civil or religious. I shall also undertake negotiations with other Western leaders to secure peace on these shores and at home.’

Saladin crossed his hands over his stomach. ‘Your Majesty, what you propose is noble and fair. But my advisors would warn me against the folly of acceding to your recommendations. They would warn me that this is a ploy to broker a period of stability here during which you would grow and consolidate support at home and then attack my people with renewed forces.’

‘They could be right, Sultan, but I do not make this proposal lightly. I am no politician, just a leader who wishes peace and prosperity for my people as I know you do, too. Sir John and Sir Gregory provide me counsel and I trust them implicitly to show me equitable and feasible ways to achieve peace.’

‘You have chosen your advisors well, my lady.’

‘What would you tell your advisors, then, Sultan?’

‘I would tell them that I find the Queen of Britain upright and magnanimous and possessed of courage so great and a character so excellent that if I should lose my empire in my lifetime, I would rather see it in her hands than in those of any King or Prince I have ever met.’

Marian’s young face lit up with a wide smile.

‘You are your father’s daughter, my lady. I had begun many negotiations with him which were all, unfortunately, aborted prematurely because of the unending violence surrounding us. But his spirit lives in you and I know that today you have made him unimaginably proud.’

She looked up at Gregory and John, her eyes bright with hope.

‘My lady’, said Saladin, ‘I shall have my _wazir_ draw up a treaty with all of your stated terms and formalise our agreement. And now that business is concluded, I think it is time for some festivities, if you would all agree.’

\------------------

Outside, the sun hovered over the horizon, slowly sinking below and spreading an orange afterglow over the purple sky. Inside, golden torchlight flickered over the large table on which were placed a variety of meats, vegetables and breads on silver dishes. Plates and cutlery made of silver were placed before each chair. Marian and Saladin seated themselves at the ends of the table, affording each other equal importance. Gregory and John sat on either side of Marian. Theo seated himself next to John while Sherlock sat beside Gregory. Saladin was flanked by his wife, Malika Ismat ad-Din Khatun and their three sons, Isqhaq, Ya’qub and Da’ud.

Queen Ismat had attired Marian in the traditional Syrian royal garb, a silken tunic that reached her knees and underneath, loose silken trousers, and over her head, a gauzy scarf of silk held in place by her tiara. On her feet she wore ornate leather slippers, with upturned tips and embroidered gold and silver filigree. The Queens smiled at each other and Marian tilted her head in thanks.

The Syrian princes attempted to engage Sherlock and Theo in conversation. Theo readily opened up to the Saracen boys but Sherlock could not tear his eyes away from John. His every glance pleaded with John to look at him but John studiously avoided his gaze. When Saladin made pleasant enquiries, John described his life in Northumberland and his friendship with Richard. Gregory recounted the story of how he met Samaarah and Richard met Marian’s mother in France. Theo spoke when he should have kept quiet. Gregory rolled his eyes and tried to get him to stop but Saladin overruled him and, laughing, asked Theo to continue. Theo embellished his stories with energetic hand gestures and animated expressions. The Syrian princes laughed uproariously at his tales. Queen Ismat watched him with the fondness of a mother.

When Theo finally stopped speaking, Sherlock offered his own story. He spoke of his last visit to Damascus to lay his mother to rest, his rescue from the Emir and his killers by John, of John’s kind treatment of him even when he was scathing with him, of John’s refusal to believe he was dead after the murder of his foster parents, John venturing into Sherwood, the lair of the notorious Wolf’s-head Robin Hood, to look for him, of John’s bravery in the Abbey, of John’s valour and nobility and of his own good fortune to have crossed paths with John who ultimately led him to his birth father.

John's name was the leitmotif in his blatant paean to his erstwhile lover and when he stopped, his eyes were still fixed on John. The subsequent silence grew more awkward with each passing moment.

John cleared his throat and looked down at his plate. A full minute later, he took his leave from the table claiming tiredness from the long journey and lack of sleep.

\-----------------

John ached. Every sleep-deprived muscle cried out, every yearning fibre of his heart grieved. For Sherlock. The estrangement was harder than he had expected, felt like a limb wrenched from his body. He wanted Sherlock in his arms, pressed against his body, lips under his, warm and wet. Seeing Sherlock again had ruptured his heart, leaving a raw, bleeding wound inside him that would never heal. He wanted to leave. He had wanted to forget. He had tried. Coming here was a mistake. Had it not been the Queen’s personal request, he would have declined.

He had almost drifted to sleep in his armchair when a knock sounded on his door. He sighed but did not rise from his chair and did not look up.

‘Come in’, he said. It was when he heard several pairs of footsteps and the tinkling of metal that he lifted his head.

Three men stood at his door. Two short instrumentalists, bearing a tambourine and a rebec each, flanked a taller masked figure wearing a silk robe of dark red with a black scarf wound around the head. The mask was silver and lent an alluring mystique to the figure.

‘What is this?’ he asked in Arabic. The masked figure intrigued him. A pang of something unnameable throbbed inside John. He pushed up to his feet.

The rebec player answered, also in Arabic. ‘My lord, the Sultan has sent us to entertain you tonight.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, my lord. He observed that you enjoyed the demonstration by the royal dancer yesterday.’

‘Indeed. Ayesha was truly enchanting’, John acknowledged with a reflective nod. He caught a slight change in the masked figure’s posture. John’s comment had affected her. Or him. He could not be certain. Curious.

‘Indeed, my lord’, said the tambourine player. ‘The Sultan noted that you were very appreciative of her talents last night and thought you might enjoy a little _private_ entertainment of a… flavour more pleasing to you.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the masked person.

A second quick scan of the disguised figure left him almost certain that he was looking at a man. How could Saladin have known? Had Sherlock revealed John’s preferences to his uncle?

‘I was not expecting… this.’ _I want someone else._

‘ _Tutih lana fursat ya sayidi_ ’ (Allow us an opportunity, my lord), said the muffled voice of the masked figure. It also sounded vaguely male but was too soft for John to be entirely sure. The body under the robe was slender enough to belong to a woman but the chest region was absolutely flat. A man, then.

‘Very well’, said John. He reached for the bedside table and held up a burning candle of which only an inch remained. ‘You have until this candle burns out to divert me.’

He sank into the closest armchair and groaned when the luxurious cushions remade themselves around his body.

The tambourine player sat down on the ground, crossing his legs before him. He held up his instrument in one hand and began striking the heel of the other palm against the leather, beating out a slow, jangling rhythm. The other instrumentalist also sat down and dragged his bow over the strings of his rebec, teasing out a sinuous melody.

John addressed the figure in the middle. ‘What are your talents?’

‘The same as Ayesha.’

John cocked an eyebrow. ‘Ayesha… possesses at least two talents of which I am aware.’ He waited a moment, until his meaning was clear. He knew it was when the masked head dropped slightly. ‘Which of those talents will you exhibit today?’

‘I will dance, my lord. The _Raqs Sharqi_.’ (Belly dance)

‘I thought only women practised that art form. Does it not emasculate you?’

‘My lord may decide if it does.’

‘Are you proficient at it?’

‘Very proficient’, came the self-assured answer.

‘All right, begin.’

John only noticed the dancer’s hands were clenched into fists when his long fingers, adorned with precious gemstones set in rings of silver, unfurled from under the overhanging sleeves and reached for the knot in the sash. A light tug with thumb and forefinger and the knot in the sash came free. The crimson robe dutifully opened in the middle and John’s breath caught in his throat. The sliver of flesh revealed by the parted robe was unexpectedly fair. The light dusting of wispy hair on the chest was unmistakeably a man’s. But this was not just any ordinary man. His reaction to the figure was very unsettling. Was the Sultan toying with him?

‘Stop this at once’, he said.

The tambourine and rebec went silent.

‘Does my lord not like what he sees?’ the masked man asked.

‘You should leave.’

‘My lord, if I leave your chambers so soon after entering it, the Emperor will consign me to the dungeons!’ said the man. His voice was a breathless whisper. ‘He will have me flogged naked. In public.’

John stared at the dancer, at what they both knew he saw in those eyes. ‘Not you’, he said. The man would not be flogged by the Sultan because he had not been sent by the Sultan. John recognised that this was a game but he would outplay the dancer.

‘You’, he jerked his chin at the rebec player, ‘and you’, this time at the tambourine player, ‘please leave. Only you, very proficient dancer, will stay’, he said, leaning back in his armchair. He watched the two instrumentalists rise to their feet, bow and then leave the room, closing the door behind them.

The masked man was alone with John in his bedchamber. The setting felt intoxicatingly illicit. John’s heart thundered in his chest.

‘Will you create rhythm, my lord?’ asked the man.

John blew out a breath. ‘No. You will. With this’, said John, holding out two anklets, curved hollow tubes with small chimes inside them that tinkled when shaken.

The man felt the anklets between his fingers. ‘They are very beautiful, my lord. May I ask where you procured them?’

‘They were given to me. As a token.’

Pellucid eyes lined darkly with kohl looked up at John. The dancer was waiting.

‘From Ayesha.’

The dark lashes swept down.

‘You appear disappointed’, said John.

‘I was given to understand that you preferred-’

‘I do. But a beautiful woman is an indulgence I permit myself when the urge arises.’

The man dropped his head. His shoulders slumped.

The words slipped out before John realised he was speaking them. ‘Only the anklets, nothing else.’

The head lifted and there was, inexplicably, relief in the eyes behind the mask. ‘Is there someone particular, my lord?’

‘That is too forward for a courtesan.’

‘I am not a courtesan, my lord. I am a dancer, but it was, indeed, too forward. Forgive me.’

John felt his reticence slip from him. Something about this dancer made him want to open to him. ‘No. There is no one.’

The masked head turned away.

‘You remind me of someone.’ It was not something he meant to say. He regretted it at once.

‘Do you wish to forget that someone?’

‘Yes.’ _But I cannot._

‘I can make you forget.’

‘You may attempt it.’

The dancer lifted his head, eyes gleaming behind the mask. He crouched down to push up the diaphanous trouser leg on the right and fasten the anklet.  Then he wore the second anklet on his left ankle. Straightening, he stood with his arms hanging limply by his sides.

‘And now, my lord?’

John leaned back in his chair. ‘Dance for me’, he said, soft this time.

It was meant to be a command but his voice trailed upwards, making it a request.

The masked man began a slow roll of the shoulders. Lifting one, then the other, like a tight, narrow wave in human flesh. Slender fingers curled around the open front of the robe at his neck and pushed it off. With a soft rustle, the silken fabric slid over the man’s shoulders and floated to the ground. The sudden vision of all that creamy flesh, bathed with gold in the yellow torchlight, shot through John in an explosion of desire. His groin swelled. His breath choked.

The man’s torso was bare. Planes of lithe muscle were laid deliciously tight over long limbs. Downy hair dusted his front and tapered down to the beautiful curl in his navel, then disappeared behind the beaded, sequined belt at the top of his trousers that he wore low on his hips, more suggestive in what it barely concealed than his nakedness would be. Small semi-precious stones hung on concentric chains over the man’s hips, glittering like diamonds against the black silk of his loose trousers. John’s eyes settled on the large pendant that hung heavily from the dip in the belt, right over the man’s groin. He realised he was panting, albeit lightly, and forced his eyes up.

Multiple thin chains of silver and gold hung around the man’s long neck, adorned with heavy gems and silver pendants, the largest resting in the dip between the man’s pectorals. Metal armlets were like snakes coiled lovingly around the man’s biceps.  Silver cuffs, with intricate patterns carved into them, were clasped around his wrists. The overt sexuality of the man’s body was irresistible. The heat in the space between them burned like the pit of a volcano. John found he would immolate himself willingly. If only he could forget.

‘How long must I wait before you begin?’ he rasped, leaning forward in his chair.

‘No more, my lord.’

A long leg kicked out, the fabric of the man’s loose, dark trousers flapping around the movement, and a bare foot tapped the ground. The anklet chimed once. Another tap. Another chime. Tap-tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap. Stop. A rhythm was set. Tap-tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap-tap. Stop. Tap-tap. Stop. John dragged his eyes from the dancer and looked down. Curiously, the floor was farther away than it had been, but the man was closer. He looked up with a small frown of confusion. Then he understood. In an automatic response, he had stood up and walked towards the man. The dancer’s other foot pointed out and dragged the large toe on the floor in a semi-circle in front of him, the bells inside the anklet creating a continuous shimmering tune. An invisible boundary had been created between dancer and patron. John returned to his armchair.

What followed was beyond John’s wildest imagination. Ayesha had been beautiful, but this man was divine. She had come to his chamber the previous night to bestow upon him the second talent to which he had alluded, but he had turned her away. He was quite certain he would be unable to refuse this dancer anything.

The dancer held out his arms on the side, creating one long line, across an even plane, from the fingertips of one hand to those of the other. The torchlight slithered, bright in its own liquid dance, over the exquisitely shaped muscles flexed with the action. A gentle ripple started in the man’s right hand, ebbing in a sensuous wave from fingers to palm to wrist to elbow to arm, and stopped in his shoulder, which pushed to the front while the other pulled back, disturbing the plane, yet utterly perfect in its beautiful discordance, then slinked over shoulder and neck over to the left. The wave made its way back, slightly faster this time, to the right. The dancer’s hips thrust out to the right and locked in that position, torso stretched straight in a fluid twist at the waist. John’s stomach knotted. The dancer’s body exuded an epicene beauty. The right leg kicked out again. Tap-tap-tap. Stop.

It felt like an unspoken command to stop breathing, stop thinking, and John obeyed. There was nothing in his consciousness except the man before him.

The slender body bowed gracefully, arms still held out and curved, like the wings of an eagle. The body straightened and bowed again, and again, a magnificent bird in flight, hips wriggling to the delightful chorus created by the chimes on the man’s belt.

John’s cock thickened. A bead of sweat tickled the skin behind his ear.

Arms still outstretched, the dancer’s narrow hips jerked, up on the left and down on the right, then the opposite motion, the tightly controlled, precise isolation in the movement a testament to the man’s astonishing dexterity. Never had geometric movements in the human body appeared so appealing to John. He watched, not breathing, not blinking, greedy for every single movement of the bewitching form before him. One moment the dancer appeared to be all angles and planes, straight lines and hard jolts. Then suddenly, his body released its sharpness and went lax. Gently rounded shoulders rolled in a sinuous pattern while the man’s hips picked up a quicker tempo, shaking, but still impossibly fluid, dropping, rolling, shuddering rapidly to the tinkling rhythm created by his feet. The chimes on his belt jingled a melody of their own as they bounced around the twitching of the narrow hips.

The man danced and John watched. The dancer divine adored by his devotee. Around them, the furniture and walls and torches were blurry shapes brushed with warm golden light.

If the sharply jolting movements had been unbearably sensual, John was completely unprepared for what followed. The dancer began to stamp his feet rapidly on the ground while an infinitesimal, continuous shudder rose from the fount of his hips. The anklets created a driving rhythm and a strange melody of their own – a shrill, continuous song of bells. The shiver spread up the muscles in his abdomen, which clenched and relaxed in sequence, then crept through the muscled striations over his ribs to reach his chest. The tendons in the man’s neck and his shoulders bunched and released as the vibration coursed down his undulant arms into his hands, waves in a river, long fingers swaying loose and boneless, like underwater reeds in a lazy pond, as the shiver seeped out of his body. All the while, his feet pattered on the ground in a feverish cadence. His head was thrown back, neck stretched tight, the mask moulded to the planes of his face.

John hated that mask. He wanted to rip it off and see the man’s face, knowing it would be as beautiful as the body. He wanted to throw the man down on the bed and take him. Take him again and again and lose himself in that body, empty his grief and his longing inside that flesh.

But the man was lost to his dance. His arms were extended as the shaking gradually subsided and he began to spin on his feet, slow at first, then faster and faster, whirling around, his unfettered, ebullient spirit captured in his exquisite corporeal frame, the continuous jangling of the bells in his anklets rising to a crescendo. His loose trousers billowed around his long legs and flapped in the breeze his pirouettes were generating in the still air of the room. Even without his face revealing his emotions, John saw the man’s soul, the ineffable joy it held, and it was more than he could bear. It pained him but he wished it would never stop.

‘Stop!’ he shouted.

 

* * *

A/N

[Horus Mozarabe  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCfxHe5Tfx0)is the inspiration for the dancer. He is just divine. Take a look :) you won't regret it.


	31. Chapter 31

The dancer slowly came to a halt. His lean chest rose and fell with his breaths. A thin sheen of perspiration glistened over the milky skin. On his chest, his nipples were hard and brown. The silence stretched out between them. The dancer’s eyes held John’s from behind his mask. They were startlingly bright and liquid between kohl-darkened lashes.

At last, the dancer spoke, slightly breathless. ‘Is my lord displeased?’

Despite not having moved at all, John was also breathless. ‘I want you to leave.’

He might as well have struck the dancer’s face because the man flinched. Hard. Then, ‘Do not ask me to leave, my lord. Not yet.’

‘You have entertained me. Leave. Now.’

The dancer dropped his head. ‘I pray you, my lord. Let me stay.’

‘What will you do if you stay?’

‘What do you wish me to do, my lord?’

The words came without preamble, without thinking. ‘I want you.’

The masked man took a step back. A long beat later, ‘I cannot, my lord.’

‘Why not? Do your services do not include warming my bed? Or is that not a talent you possess?’

‘You forget I am not a courtesan, my lord. I do not provide services. I engage in any activities I wish. And it is a talent in which I am quite confident.’

 _You just do not wish to share it with me._ ‘Then go.’ He turned his back to the dancer.

‘Do not send me away. Let me stay, I beg you.’

‘Do you dance like that for all your patrons?’

‘I have no other patrons, my lord. And if I did, I would not dance like that for anyone but you.’

Disbelief flashed in John’s eyes. ‘You danced for me? Just me?’

‘Only you, my lord.’

‘Why?’

It was a simple question. But the dancer was silent.

‘Why? I wish to know. I did not ask for you. Or anyone else. I do not believe that you were sent to me for my entertainment. I believe you came here because you wanted to.’

The man still said nothing.

‘You will answer me’, said John, his voice a little louder this time. ‘Or leave.’

‘I-’, the dancer stopped. ‘I cannot offer you a more honest answer than to say that I wished to dance for someone like this.’

‘Why me?’

The dancer shifted his gaze to the wall behind John. ‘You remind me of someone, too, my lord.’

A self-deprecatory smirk ghosted over John’s face. ‘Look at us both. Are we not the most pathetic creatures?’

The dancer dropped his head.

‘I wish to see your face.’

‘Do not ask me for that, my lord...’

‘Why? Are you damaged?’

‘I am not damaged.’

‘Then reveal yourself.’

‘This was a mistake, my lord.’ He sounded anxious now. ‘I should leave.’

The dancer took a step back. John took a step forward.

‘Where will you go?’ John asked.

‘I do not know.’

‘Perhaps to another man who reminds you of _someone_ , and whom you can tantalise to the point of losing control and then leave unfulfilled?’

‘Please, stop!’ the dancer begged.

‘You try my patience’, said John, an edge to his voice. ‘First you ask to stay. I tell you what I want, give you the choice to leave, and still you stay. Now you want to leave. Which is it?’

‘I do not know!’

‘You do know! Have the courage to speak your mind.’

John could almost see the war waging within the dancer. Then with a subtle shift, the dancer squared shoulders and straightened his back. Looking right at John, he said, ‘I wish to stay.’

John did not want there to be any question about what would transpire. ‘You know what I want if you stay.’

‘I do. I want to stay.’

John ran his eyes over the stranger’s glistening body, tracing the path of a rivulet of sweat down the man’s long neck. The trickle thickened and more sweat ran down his neck. The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

John stared at the dancer’s eyes, at his wet lashes. ‘Are those tears?’ he asked, surprised.

‘No, my lord’, the dancer answered, too quickly. He turned away his masked face. ‘I perspire. It is the exertion of the dance.’

John came back to himself. _What am I doing?_ ‘You need not fear me. Rest here, if you wish. I shall take a walk around the palace.’

‘No- no, my lord. Do not leave me.’

‘This is not right.’

‘You said you wanted me. I see that you still do’, he added with a pointed look at John’s hips.

‘And you said it was a mistake. It was. I will not force myself on you.’

‘You will not be forcing me, my lord. I wish to lie with you.’

John’s eyebrows lifted in a slow question.

‘I do’, the dancer insisted.

‘Why? There is no reason for you to do this.’

‘I do it because it is what I want. I only ask that you permit me to retain my mask.’

John considered his request. ‘What are you called?’

‘My name is of no consequence, now, in this chamber.’

‘Yet you know my name, do you not?’

‘I do, my lord. But I shall not speak it, for we are as ships passing in the night.’

John looked at him helplessly. His own eyes stung. ‘How much longer must we delude ourselves?’ His grief was starting to rise again. It was getting harder to suppress and the dancer saw that.

‘As long as it takes, my lord. Will you permit me to embrace you?’ the dancer asked, holding out his arms.

John went willingly and felt long arms enclose him in a cocoon of comfort. He lay his head on the lithe shoulder. His eyes prickled. He gently rubbed his cheek over the silken, sweat-damp skin, gently nosed the tense muscle under his face and breathed in the heady scent of the dancer.

‘Do you wish me to bathe, my lord? I am quite-’

‘No’, John breathed and pressed a kiss to the dancer’s shoulder. ‘No, I want you like this. I wish to taste you. May I?’

‘You may do anything you wish to me, my lord.’

Grabbing the dancer’s shoulders, John jerked him close and ran his tongue over his neck. The salt exploded on his tongue. Tears and sweat. He sighed against the damp skin.

The man moaned softly. He was also affected.

‘Take your clothes off’, John growled.

The dancer began to obey. He reached for his armlets.

‘No, just your trousers. Leave your jewelry on.’

The dancer unclipped the heavy belt and kicked off his diaphanous trousers. He stretched out on the mattress, on his back. John leaned over the naked man. His many necklaces were strewn over his heaving chest. Shadows frolicked in the concave playground of his stomach, darting into the curl of his navel and retreating as be breathed. His palms pressed down into the sheets beside his hips.

John unfastened his anklets and placed them carefully on the bedside table. Then, with his pointer finger, John tugged at the bottom of his mask.

Long fingers clasped his wrist. The dancer turned his head away. ‘No, my lord, do not do this.’

‘I wish to see your face.’

‘It is my body you want, not my face. You do not want _me_.’

John straightened and shed his own clothes. The dancer’s eyes fell to John’s hips and stayed there, transfixed on the centre. He gasped.

‘I will not hurt you’, John said.

The dancer’s eyes flew up to John’s. ‘I know you will never hurt me’, he said.

His eyes were bright with tears, with desire, with something else. _Was that remorse? Or hope?_

Pushing away those questions, John dipped his fingers into the unlit lamp on the bedside table and held up oil-slick fingers.

‘Open your legs’, he said to the dancer who obediently spread his thighs.

An ache throbbed in John’s chest.

‘My lord?’ the dancer asked, soft, tentative.

John shook his head, pushing away the memories that would not be denied. With clinical precision, he pushed his fingers between the dancer’s legs and felt for his entrance. Finding it, he carefully pressed in. Long lashes swept down and the dancer’s eyes drew shut. The husky sounds he made, muffled by his mask, and his distractingly beautiful body slowly twisting under the gentle onslaught of John’s fingers were the only evidence of his reactions. John pulled his fingers out. He had to still his thundering heart. He wanted to grab the dancer and take him until they were no longer bodies, no longer two, but just one single entwined spirit. Like he had wanted with Sherlock.

The dancer was watching him. ‘The wait grows increasingly difficult, my lord. Will you take me now?’

John nodded mutely. He positioned himself between the dancer’s thighs but a hand touched his chest, holding him back.

‘What would you do if I were your lover? If you were loving my body, not merely taking it?’

_Why do you ask me this? Why torment me like this?_

‘I beg you, my lord.  Help me help you forget the person who hurt you. Tell me how you make love. Then show me.’

Like a man under an enervating spell, John answered. ‘I would kiss your body. I would trace the lines of your beautiful flesh, kiss your chest, kiss your stomach, take you in my mouth and show you how very much I cherish you.’

The dancer muffled a sob. His face turned into the pillow, the movement pushing the mask up a little to reveal an angular, lightly stubbled jawline. It was a startlingly masculine aspect in the dancer’s otherwise androgynous persona. John’s breath caught in his throat. He bent down and pressed a kiss to the skin behind the dancer’s ear.

‘I would take your lips with mine’, John said, hope creeping into his words. ‘I would kiss your mouth until the only taste you knew was the taste of me.’

The dancer let out a sob. John ran his nose slowly down the man’s neck and kissed his collar bone.

‘Does my body compare with his?’ the man whispered.

‘If perfection can be compared with itself. For he is perfect, and you are perfect, too.’

‘Make love to me, my lord!’ the dancer groaned and arched his back, pushing up against John’s body.

John did. His mouth fell over the tight flesh of the man’s chest, tasted his nipples, dipped into his navel and closed over the man’s tumescence. He drew the dancer’s cries from him with every lick, every pull of lips and hand on the hard shaft. A shudder in the supple body made him pull off.

‘I want to kiss you’, he said, reaching for the mask again. His pleading was loathsome to him but the words were spoken before he could stop himself.

At once, the dancer shrank from his touch. ‘No, my lord.’

‘Why not?’ cried John.

‘Because you will not want me if you see my face.’

‘Is it not my prerogative to decide that?’

The dancer shook his head.

The repeated rejection rankled. ‘If you will not allow me to see your face when I am inside you,’ John snarled, ‘you shall not see mine either.’

John grabbed the dancer’s hips and roughly flipped him onto his front.

The dancer sprawled on the sheets, face pressed into the pillow. John hooked an arm under his hips and pulled him up, his buttocks on display. Encouraged by the stranger’s groan, he ran his hands up his thighs and spread the taut flesh slightly, looking down at his glistening, beckoning objective.

'Stay still', John growled.

One hand grasped the dancer’s hip to keep him steady and with the other, he guided himself in. It was tight. So tight his breath was squeezed from him. But he pushed forward carefully through the resistance and then, miraculously, he was inside and sliding all the way until his sac pressed against the smooth skin between the dancer’s entrance and his shaft. He bent over, his forehead dropping between the stranger’s shoulder blades. He moved a little, then held still. His thighs fitted perfectly against the dancer’s thighs, warm, damp with sweat.

The man below him was quiet. Too quiet. John felt a pang of concern for him.

‘Am I hurting you?’

A soundless shake of the head.

‘Do not lie to me. Are you not comfortable? Am I hurting you?’

‘You will never hurt me, my lord. Please, take me, take me’, the dancer sobbed and stretched out an arm behind him to grasp John’s thigh and pull him forward. ‘Take me, my lord’, he ground out into his mask.

And John did. He drove forward while the dancer pushed back into his thrusts, taking up the rhythm their bodies needed. It was rough, almost brutal in intensity. The physical pleasure escalating between his legs could not wash away the memories, his too-raw, too-painful memories. He had prayed that this act would exorcise his grief and give him the desire to live again. He had hoped he would forget. It was a futile hope. He would never forget. Not when the body under his was taunting him, in agonising detail, with the joys he had known. In the wake of that defeating acceptance came his release, strident and devastating. His pleasure tore out of him in a shout, he was unaware of the words he was chanting as he came inside the dancer’s body. A few moments later, he felt the dancer’s climax shudder through his pliant body and spurt over John’s fingers clasped around his flesh.

Together they fell into the mattress, John’s body a boneless, hot weight pressing down on the dancer’s limbs. It was a long while before his mind cleared. He placed a tender kiss on the dancer’s shoulder and drew himself out of his body. Lifting his body, he fell on his back on the mattress. After a moment, the dancer shifted to lie on his side. He was staring at John. John held his gaze. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the moulded lips on the mask. The metal was cold and hard under his lips. Then he drew back and lay on his pillow, looking up at the patterns in the ceiling.

‘You kissed me’, the dancer murmured.

‘I kissed your mask.’

‘You said things to me.’

‘Such as?’

‘You called me _mahbubi_.’ (beloved)

‘I lost myself in the moment. Think nothing of it.’

‘You called me _mahbubi._ Do not deny it! _’_

John sat up on the bed, facing the dancer. His shaking fingers ungently pulled the mask off. ‘Does this please you?’ he demanded, his voice shaking with anger. ‘Tormenting me like this?’

He looked down into wide green eyes.

He knew that being unmasked made the man feel more naked, more vulnerable than he was in that moment, but he did not care. The ache in his heart was too great.

‘John…’

‘You made your position on the matter clear, Sherlock. I stayed away from you. I only came here at the Queen’s behest. You came to me tonight. You had the choice to leave. You chose to stay. Why?’ He pressed his eyes with the heels of his palms. ‘What must I do to be free of you?’

‘John, please, will you allow me to explain?’

‘Like you allowed me?’

‘I was… not myself then. You know that. I was hurt.’

‘Look at me now. There is a hole inside me where you used to be. Does it please you? Is this punishment enough to assuage your hurt?’

‘Do not say that! I know now what you did.’

‘What did I do?’

‘You saved my life, by giving me the entire span of yours.’

John closed his eyes. A deep breath later, he asked, ‘Who told you?’

‘Theo. He showed me a scroll found in Tuck’s chamber.’

John tilted his head, waiting.

‘Will found it. He picked it up and kept it, but could not understand the words’, he shrugged, ‘written as they were in Arabic. He did not think it was important.’

Sherlock recited the verse he had committed to memory.

 _‘_ _min khilal damy hayati tasubb lak_

_khudh 'anfasi dakhil walttanfus marratan 'ukhraa_

_limuddat sbet 'ayam 'ukhraa wasawf natil_

_thumm , l alkhulud sa'anam’_

_(Through my blood my life pours into you_

_Take my breath inside and breathe again_

_For seven more days I will linger_

_Then, for an eternity I will sleep)_

 

‘So you know.’

‘Why would you give up your life for me?’

John looked at him as if the question was unspeakably foolish. ‘Are you truly expecting an answer to that question?’

Sherlock waited.

‘I never stopped loving you. I cannot…ever stop.’ The fight left John. He was no longer angry, only desperately sad. ‘But it seems I am only capable of hurting you. Every time! Even now I hurt you. You should stay away from me, Sherlock…Hush… why did you cry now?’

Sherlock’s kohl ran in dark streaks down his cheeks. His beauty was ethereal, erotic in the extreme. Yet his vulnerability broke John’s heart.

‘Because I know why you did it’, said Sherlock. ‘You wanted me to hate you.’

John sighed. He was past pretending. ‘I was so convinced of your love for me that I thought the only way to set you free was to make you hate me. But it was presumptuous of me to think my loss would destroy you. It is your loss that is destroying me. Every day I die a little.’ John looked down at his hands, lying palms-up in his lap. ‘I was dying in that cottage. There is no earthly reason for me to have survived. Yet I still draw breath. And for the rest of my days I will think of you and I will love you.’ He stopped. Blew out a breath before he could continue. ‘The loss is mine, Sherlock, not yours, and therefore, I do not know why you cry now.’

Wet green eyes blinked. ‘You wanted to forget me. You wanted another man.’ Then, seeing the look of bemusement on John’s face, ‘You responded to my body thinking I was someone else.’

‘I want _you_. Did I not say that?’

‘You thought I was someone else!’

‘How little you know me. I responded to _your_ body. Sherlock’s body. Because I knew who you were as soon as your robe was removed.’ He extended a forefinger and pointed, in sequence, to the three small, brown birthmarks dotting Sherlock’s right ribs. ‘I know your body, Sherlock, better than you know it. I have seen you as you cannot see yourself. I know every curve in your shoulders, every sinew on your back, the curl of your navel, the length of your neck, the length of your fingers, I know you like I carved you myself.’ Every word was a knife-cut to his heart.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed as John’s words coursed over him.

‘Open your eyes’, said John.

The green irises were once again utterly open, the fire in them doused by tears. ‘If you wished to forget me, why did you lie with me?’

‘Because you are my intoxicant, my poison. And I cannot deny you. Please clothe yourself and leave. I shall take a walk around the palace. When I return, I expect to find you gone.’

‘Do not ask me to leave’, Sherlock begged. ‘I thought you did not love me anymore. It felt as if I were dying all over again, only I kept breathing, kept waking up to a new _hateful_ day in which you did not love me.’

John laughed but it was not a happy sound.

‘I was _broken_ , John!’

‘And I still am _._ ’ He looked down at his hands, lying palms up in his lap. Trembling. ‘I am doomed to loving you for as long as I draw breath.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you _understand_ that?’ His voice hitched. He paused to swallow his emotion. ‘If you never give me a second look again, if you never spend a moment thinking of me or say my name again, if you pledge yourself to someone else before my eyes, I will still love you. Even now I love you. But I cannot.’ The pain was raw, in his eyes, in his strangled words. ‘I will not permit myself to hurt you again. You deserve better than a damaged, downhearted soldier who only causes you pain.’

‘No. I deserve you and you deserve me! I only want you, John!’

‘Stop this.’

‘No, I will not! You will not hurt me. I know it.’

John dropped his head, shook it repeatedly. ‘I am not right for you.’

‘I am not blameless either, John! You did not lie to me. It is my failing that I did not understand.’

John looked up at him, questioning.

‘You said you would not leave me. Until I asked you to or you died. And I had not asked you to leave.’

‘None of that matters anymore.’

‘I will wait for you, John. Forever, if I must!’

But John’s face was set in stone. His eyes were blue ice. ‘I cannot. Not yet.’

Still naked, he stepped into the bath chamber and returned with a small damp washcloth and gently cleaned Sherlock. Then he pulled the sheet over Sherlock’s nakedness with instinctive consideration. He returned to the bath chamber where he washed himself and donned a fresh set of clothes. Without a word to Sherlock, he left the chamber and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock waited in John’s bed all night. Hours later, the sun had risen but John had not returned.


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock squinted in the bright light of the sun. He used John’s bath chamber to wash his body and his kohl-streaked cheeks clean. Fortunately, or perhaps thoughtfully, John had left an unused tunic on a chair. Sherlock pulled it over his loose, sheer trousers and padded out on bare feet into his bed chamber. There he changed into his own clothes and went out in search of John. Instead, he found Gregory.

‘Father, have you seen John?’

Gregory looked up from the tome he was reading in Saladin’s library. ‘John is on his way back to Britain, Sherlock. He left at first light today.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘No. And I did not ask.’

Sherlock walked up to a window and traced drew his gaze over the landscaped gardens around the palace.

‘Sherlock…’

‘Yes, Father?’ Sherlock turned around. His father was smiling at him, but there was concern in his eyes.

‘I did ask him what route he would take.’

‘And?’ Sherlock asked, soft and expectant.

‘He said he would call on someone in Sha’ab on his way back, an old friend. Do you know whom he meant?’

Hope bubbled quietly inside Sherlock. ‘I do.’

‘You know I cannot accompany you to Sha’ab.’

‘No, Father. I do not expect it. You must stay with the Queen. You and Theo must remain.’

Gregory shook his head. ‘I will not allow you to travel alone again. We both remember what happened the last time you did.’

‘I could take Haidar with me.’

‘Haidar? The boy who served our meals yesterday?’

‘He hails from Sha’ab. I first met him here but John and I also met him in Sha’ab. He would appreciate a visit home, I think.’

‘Very well’, Gregory smiled. ‘If Haidar accedes to accompanying you, I shall enjoy the beauty of Damascus a little longer.’

\------------------

Sherlock and Haidar arrived at Sha’ab the following day and rode up to the mansion where they had stayed the last time. They had just dismounted their horses when the large doors opened and John emerged. John’s surprise flashed over his face but he schooled his features into its usual public inscrutability. Sherlock, however, read more in those deep blue eyes than John would have liked.

They looked at each other. Before Sherlock could say a word, John hurried down the stairs and towards the stables. Sherlock and Haidar lingered on the steps until they saw Starlight rush out from the shed, bearing John on her back.

Haidar cast an oblique glance at Sherlock who did not meet his eyes. Together they entered the mansion.

\---------------

Sufyan called on Sherlock in his bed chamber. ‘Habibi!’ he gushed and held out his arms for an embrace.

They held each other warmly.

‘Muddarris, you look well.’

‘As well as ninety-three summers can look’, Sufyan smiled.

‘I am glad to see you.’

‘And I am glad to see you’, said Sufyan, ‘but I do not delude myself that I am the reason you are here.’

Sufyan’s single working eye made his gaze more piercing than two eyes. Sherlock avoided his gaze.

‘Have you seen him?’ Sufyan asked.

‘He was going for a ride when I arrived.’

‘You will have a busy evening’, Sufyan predicted. ‘I assume you have had a busy few weeks.’

‘I have.’

‘I gave him an amulet.’

‘I know. I read the scroll.’

Sufyan rubbed his chin. ‘Does he know what you did?’

‘No.’

‘You did not tell him?’

‘He did not tell me, either.’

‘Still…’

‘That is not something you tell anyone. Especially the person for whom you did it.’

Sufyan shook his head, laughing. ‘The two of you will be the death of me.’

‘Do not say things like that, Sufyan’, said Sherlock, throwing his arms around the old man. ‘You are not going anywhere anytime soon. I will not allow it.’

‘Oh, _habibi_ , you break my heart. Your eyes are so sad. Paradise lies before you both, if you would only allow yourselves to be happy!’

‘That is why I am here.’

‘Good. Good. I am glad’, said Sufyan, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. He would call on John.

\---------------

‘Sir John, it is pleasing to see you again.’ He was waiting by the doors for John to return from his ride.

‘Sufyan!’ said John, rushing to embrace the old man.

‘Oh, do you receive every man you meet with this much affection?’

‘Only the men I like’, John smiled.

‘Then I can only imagine how you greeted Sherlock when he arrived today.’

John cleared his throat. ‘How have you been, Sufyan?’

‘I am well, John. And Sherlock is well, too.’

‘You look well. You look very well.’

‘And you, John?’

‘The situation is a little different from when we last met.’

‘I believe it is quite similar.’

John’s question was evident in his raised eyebrow.

‘You are here, Sherlock is here. You wish to be together but you are not.’ His grin displayed pink gums. ‘So you see, it is quite similar.’

‘No. This time we did not arrive together’, John countered half-heartedly.

‘Yet, like last time, you will leave together’, said Sufyan.

‘It is not what you think.’

‘Oh, it does not matter what I think. The only thing that matters is what you and Sherlock think.’

‘We are not together.’

‘Then why do I see him in you?’

‘Sufyan…’, John sighed, ‘your whimsical notions have no basis in reality.’

‘I saw you in him, too.’

John shook his head. ‘I will never understand your Eastern romanticism.’

‘It is not romanticism. You know that.’

‘No, I do not.’

‘You were dying.’

‘I was.’

‘Yet you now live. Have you not wondered how that came to be?’

‘I have, but all I know is I was tended to by my friend, Sir Gregory. I also know he is not possessed of the talents required to bring the dying back to life.’

‘Who is Sir Gregory?’

‘He- he is Samaarah’s husband. Sherlock’s birth father. But you knew that already.’

Sufyan smiled.

‘I know that smile is meant to tell me something. But I cannot read your meaning.’

‘Was Sir Gregory alone in tending to you?’

‘No. Friar Tuck, my friend, tended to me as well. He was helped by a young girl.’

‘A girl? Curious.’

‘What is curious about a girl helping a Friar?’

‘Nothing, of course. A Briton helping a fellow Briton.’

‘No, she was a Saracen’, John slowly as understanding bloomed.

‘A Saracen girl in England. _That_ qualifies as curious, does it not?’

‘Yes…’, he closed his eyes. ‘I recall her chanting spells, forcing bitter potions down my throat and covering my wounds with salves that stung. Her medications were rather unpleasant but her manner most comforting.’

‘Did she have a name?’

‘Rubina.’

Sufyan smiled knowingly. John only frowned. Sufyan’s one good eye twinkled.

Like the rays of the morning sun burning way the dawn haze, realisation dawned on John. ‘Oh.’ his hands came up to cover his mouth and nose.

‘He has always been very good with disguises, Sir Knight.’

‘I know. I should have known!’

‘You should have’, Sufyan shrugged, ‘but in your defence, your heart was broken and you were at death’s door. Unraveling the identity of the maiden attending to you was not your most pressing concern while you battled your own melancholy and Death with every breath.’ Sufyan grinned, toothless gums flashing happily at John.

‘What did he do? What were those spells?’

‘Why do you not ask him?’

‘We are not- I used to be able to speak with him about- everything. But it is difficult now.’

‘It is only difficult because you make it difficult.’

John smirked but Sufyan was not offended.

‘You allow your fears to blind you to what is yours, what wants to be yours.’

‘Do you know what he did?’

Sufyan chuckled that John should ask. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Then tell me, please.’

‘He used a spell from the Book of the Dead.’

‘What kind of spell?’

‘One that ensured you that will both die at the same time.’

‘What? Why would he do that? I do not understand. Did he tell you that?’

‘He did not have to.’

John tossed his head up in a challenge. ‘Then how do you know what he did?’

‘Just as I know what the scroll in the amulet said.’

John scowled. ‘Your riddles are not as entertaining as you imagine, Sufyan.’

‘It is only a riddle if you are determined not to understand. I have touched his spirit. To heal you, I had to touch yours. I know you both better than you know each other.’

‘Sufyan! You _still_ have not explained what Sherlock did.’

Sufyan closed his eyes briefly. Then, looking at John again, he gave a patient sigh. ‘Let me put it in quantifiable terms that would appeal to a Western intellect. You, Sir John, gave up the entire span of your life to save Sherlock. He gave up half the span of his life to save you. Sherlock can explain the apparent inequity of the exchange.’ He grinned but John was frowning.

‘I am certain his logic will be unassailable but why would he give me his life? What was he thinking? The foolish, foolish boy!’

‘He is not a boy anymore, John. Nor is he foolish. He is a man, your equal, demanding his place by your side. It is your folly that you deny him what is rightfully his.’

John cocked an eyebrow, not understanding. ‘And what is that?’

‘You’, said Sufyan, with a pronounced eye-roll.

John’s frown relaxed a little. But he could not see himself and did not realise that his eyes had turned soft with fondness. He groused, still sounding annoyed, ‘I should have known you would favour him.’

‘You would die for each other without a second thought, and still you do not believe that you are loved beyond all measure. It is a pity, truly’, Sufyan sighed. ‘I have not seen love so unshakeable between two hearts for a long time. You are as one soul, yet you tear yourselves asunder with doubt and fear.’

‘I hurt him! I keep hurting him!’

‘And he hurt you, did he not? Why does that continue to matter? If happiness is light, then sadness is dark. One cannot exist without the other. If you allow fleeting sadness to deprive you of lifelong happiness, then you are a fool.’

A muscle jumped in John’s jaw. He could not look at Sufyan.

‘John… why do you think he has come here? If you leave Sha’ab without setting things to rights, do you think he will not follow you? If there is one thing Sherlock is, it is tenacious.’

John dropped his head. ‘I must find him.’

Sufyan let out a relieved breath. ‘You must’, he said, still smiling. ‘Go to him. The foolish young man pines for you as you pine for him.’

John flashed an embarrassed smile of gratitude and rose to his feet.

Sufyan gave a merry chortle. ‘I should hope the next time I see you both, I do not have to play matchmaker yet again’, he said. ‘I am getting too old for that!’

\----------------------

‘Haidar!’

‘Sir John!’ said Haidar, overjoyed recognition lighting up his face.

‘Have you seen Sherlock?’

‘He is in the library, my lord.’

‘I must go to him.’

Strangely, Haidar looked at him with excitement. ‘Yes, my lord. You must.’

John nodded. ‘It is good to see you again, Haidar.’

‘It is very good to see you again, my lord.’

\--------------

John practically ran to the library. It was empty but for Sherlock who sat at a table, his back to the door, reading what appeared to be a large book. John softly cleared his throat. Sherlock lifted his head but did not turn around.

‘So…Rubina’, said John. ‘Interesting choice.’

Sherlock rose from his chair. They looked at each other.

‘Robin’, said John.

‘I thought it would help you see.’

‘You should know that my efforts at the time were concentrated on trying to stay alive’, John protested feebly. He was quite ashamed that he had not deduced that. ‘And your disguise was very convincing.’

‘You did say I made a lovely woman.’

‘Yes, Rubina was exceptionally lovely.’

‘Rubina’s face was always concealed by her _burqa_.’

‘I did not need to see her face to know she was lovely.’

Sherlock smiled, but it was forced. John wanted to kiss away every cloud of unhappiness that dared hang over Sherlock. Ever.

‘Sufyan told me what you did.’

Sherlock looked at his feet. His lips disappeared between his teeth.

John felt ridiculously light-hearted. ‘Sherlock…’

Sherlock’s lashes swept up.

‘Why did you come here?’ John asked.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, not understanding the point of the question. ‘I _had_ to come here. You are here.’

‘I said I wanted to be free of you. Do you remember that?’

‘But you also said you love me and that you would always love me. You said “not yet”, not “never”. Do you remember that?’

‘I did not think you paid such close attention to my words then. Or ever.’

‘I always have.’

‘Sufyan said you saved my life. You gave me half your years. Why would you do that? What- _possessed_ you to do something that foolish?’

Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his teeth. ‘It is not quite as foolish as you think it is’, he snapped, somewhat defensively. ‘I only gave you back half of what you gave me.’ Then, reconsidering, he said, ‘On second thought, it does seem quite unfair to you.’

The computations were bordering on absurd. ‘Sherlock!’ said John, his voice rising with exasperation. ‘Why would you do that?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘You had, rather unthinkingly, if I may say so, given up your life to save mine.’ There was an edge of annoyance to his words. ‘I realise you had no alternative at the time, as you were merely following the instructions on the scroll’, he said in a feeble attempt to mollify John. ‘But without you, I have no reason to live.’ Just like that. ‘Under the circumstances, it was best to make sure that neither of us outlived the other.’ He studied John’s face carefully. ‘It is quite simple, actually.’

For one long, trembling moment, John marvelled at the blinding logic of Sherlock’s solution. Sherlock, however, read dismay in John’s eyes.

‘I– I know you gave up everything for me. You should know that it was the timing that altered my choice.’

‘Timing?’

‘Yes’, Sherlock murmured. He looked down at his feet. ‘I would have chosen a different spell had I already seen your inscription on the picture of me. Perhaps it is just as well that I had not.’

 _Oh. Of course._ John nodded emphatically, because his eyes were welling. _Why would you give me another moment of your life after that?_

Sherlock was watching him, reading his thoughts. ‘It is not what you are thinking’, he said. ‘In fact, it is the exact opposite.’

John shook his head now, eyes still leaking. _Exact opposite? How?_

Sherlock’s next words were unexpectedly sharp. ‘Do you just _hear_ my words or do you actually _listen_?’

It was not an explanation. John revisited Sherlock’s words. _But without you, I have no reason to live._ “Have”, not “had”.

John lifted his eyes and lost himself in the truth of that admission reflected in the pellucid green gaze looking back at him.

‘That is…’, John swallowed. His eyebrows rose with the effort of keeping his tears from falling. ‘You would be a fool if you did that.’

‘No worse than you.’ Sherlock tilted his head sadly. ‘I told you it was quite simple.’ His own eyes had begun to glisten.

‘It is- extraordinarily simple and brilliantly inspired’, John gushed.

‘Of course it is’, said Sherlock. ‘But’, he admitted, ‘it does give us less time together.’

 _Together._ The word hung in the space between them like a fluttering promise.

‘And if you continue to stay away from me and have me follow you, we will have even less time together.’ He held John’s gaze for a moment. ‘I will follow you. You- you cannot rid yourself of me. You said you will think of me for the rest of your days. But if you take me, you need not go to all that trouble, because I will be with you.’

Sherlock waited but John seemed unable to harness his words.

‘I will attempt to be kind with my speech but I caution you that I might not always be successful and you will get annoyed with me. Still, as a former Knight Hospitaller, you have learned to be tolerant of unpleasantness and resilient to unbearable circumstances.’

And just like that, they were back in the Emir’s palace, when John still did not know his name, when Sherlock was an enigmatic young man, a product of East and West, whose eyes held secrets and whose lips delivered insults. Now he stood before John, his eyes carrying hope, his lips delivering a promise couched in a warning. John gaped at him as if he were some mythical creature that could not truly exist. For how could something this perfect be real?

‘If those circumstances were a result of spending my life with an extraordinary man, the... _best_  man I have ever known, who has breathed life back into me, I cannot imagine it being unpleasant or unbearable.’

‘I would agree’, said Sherlock, dryly.

John provided a needless elaboration. ‘You are extraordinary and brilliant.’

‘I know’, Sherlock owned. ‘You just took a little longer than I expected to see it’, he teased but his lips quivered as a tear ran down his cheek.

They stared at each other, their frowns comically dissolving into helpless smiles and then back into frowns. They blinked away thick tears. Happiness, relief, desperate joy bubbled inside them. And just like that, the walls, the doubt and the hurt were stripped away.

‘Why do you cry now?’ Sherlock asked him.

‘You stand before me, two feet away but still out of reach. There are so many things I want. But I cannot touch you here. And you have not spoken my name.’

‘John’, said Sherlock, so softly it might have been nothing more than a breath with sound. ‘You can touch me here, or wherever you want.’

‘Sherlock’, said John.

Sherlock’s lips trembled as hope bloomed on his face. John’s shoulders started to shake. Then Sherlock’s shoulders shook. They were crying, but their mouths laughed, delirious with joy, gaping at the distance between their bodies, less than an arm’s length away but feeling like an abyss.

‘What do you want, John?’

John was about to speak but Sherlock reached across the divide and placed a finger on his lips.

‘Do not explain’, he said softly. ‘Do not apologise. Do not dwell in the past. What do you want in this moment? From this moment on? What do you want from me? Because whatever you want from me, I will give you.’

‘I want to love you’, John blurted, simply, senselessly.

What followed was a longer pause than either of them expected. Then, ‘Good’, Sherlock nodded, blinking hard. ‘That is good. Because I want you to love me’, he said, equally simple and senseless. He took a step towards John.

‘Not here’, John said, taking a dismayed step back. He looked around. ‘Come to my bed chamber in five minutes.’

‘There is no one else here’, Sherlock grumbled. ‘I can lock the door.’

‘Sherlock!’

‘Everyone knows already!’ Sherlock complained.

‘Sherlock.’ The iron was back in John’s voice.

Sherlock offered an overoptimistic compromise. ‘Very well, one minute.’

John almost agreed, but then, he would not give in that easily. ‘Three’, he counter-offered.

Sherlock pretended not to hear. ‘Two. Please go now!’

John laughed, his soul soaring out of his body as he ran up the broad staircase leading to his bed chamber two steps at a time. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock laugh as he trailed him by a few steps. He was reneging on his agreement to wait two minutes. John would just have to tie him up and punish him. Tomorrow.

 


	33. Chapter 33

John rushed into his chamber and shut the door before Sherlock could get in.

A moment later, he heard an irate, ‘Open the door, John’, from the other side.

‘I said five minutes.’

‘John!’

‘I must bathe’, John called out. He was laughing.

But Sherlock was not amused in the least. ‘Bathe? Why?’ he demanded.

‘I spent the last hour riding. I have sand in my hair and sweat on my skin. Believe me, I am in need of a bathe.’

‘All right. You may bathe. But let me in.’

‘Come back in five minutes’, John laughed.

But then he stopped because the silence from the other side was unnerving. Slowly, he drew the door open and peeped outside. Sherlock had left.

Somewhat surprised by Sherlock’s easy compliance, John shut the door and retired into the bath chamber. Perhaps Sherlock would return shortly. Perhaps he would have to seek admittance into Sherlock’s chamber when he had bathed. Both prospects held delicious promise.

Smiling, he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the large wooden bath tub. It was filled with hot, scented water. John scrubbed his skin clean with the herbal soap placed in a small dish by the tub. He poured water over his hair and washed it clean. Stepping out of the tub, he rubbed himself lightly with the fresh towel folded on the table beside him, leaving his skin damp and cool. He shook his head, sending droplets of water flying out from the tips of his hair in a glittering spray. Then he rubbed the thick, wet locks that reached down darkly to his shoulders. Looping the towel around his waist, he padded out on bare feet into the bedchamber.

A nightshirt and loose trousers, both made of thin white linen, had been set out on the bed. A fire crackled in the hearth. Someone had prepared the chamber with great care. Was it Sufyan? Or Haidar at Sufyan’s instance? He gave silent thanks to his unknown benefactor and then faced the fact that Sherlock was not in the chamber and he needed to see him.

He tugged the towel off and tossed it on a chair. Then he pulled on the nightshirt. Laces trailed down either side of the placket in the front which was open to the middle of his torso. He left the laces untied, savouring the whisper of cool breeze on his freshly cleaned skin. The draught swept over his bare legs through the side seams that were open for about half a foot down to the hem. He was bent over, about to pull on the trousers when, behind him, the door opened; the curtains flapped noisily and were sucked into the windows by a stronger crosswind that gusted through the opened door.

‘You will not need that’, said the only voice he wished to hear.

He straightened, still holding the trousers. Turning around, he met Sherlock’s smirk with a lift of his eyebrow.

‘I am half-dressed.’ A wry statement of fact.

‘As I wish you to be’, said Sherlock, taking slow steps towards him and stopping a few feet away. ‘For the moment.’

John rubbed his fingers over his day-old stubble. Sherlock had forbidden him from shaving his face during his bath. ‘Your intentions are unclear’, he said.

‘My intentions are perfectly clear.’

John’s lips lifted in a slow leer as he recalled Sherlock’s words from Acre. ‘It appears that you wish to lie with a man of dubious morals.’

A snort of disagreement. ‘I wish to lie with _you_ because your morals are unimpeachable.’ The pale throat jumped and then came the partial reversal, the truth. ‘Yet the charade feels-’ Sherlock stopped.

John took a step forward. His breathing slowed and his voice dropped. His groin swelled. ‘Exciting?’

A bite of the plump lower lip chased away the blood. ‘Exciting.’

Another step. ‘Dangerous?’

A deep flush rose over the smooth cheeks. Dark lashes swept down. ‘Dangerous.’

Another step. Closer now.  Too close and still too far because they were not touching. ‘And what else?’

A lust-filled gaze met John’s and a confession was whispered over a warm breath. ‘Frighteningly intoxicating.’

His eyes unblinking and fixed on Sherlock, John’s lips pressed together.

Then they were touching because it was too agonising not to. Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders and pushed him against the wall. John was about to protest but found his mouth claimed by Sherlock lips, his words stolen by Sherlock’s tongue, his spirit driven mad by Sherlock’s kisses. Sherlock kissed him until he was satisfied. When he pulled his mouth off, John’s vision swam and his legs buckled.

Sherlock’s fingers brushed over John’s cheeks, down his neck to the open placket, slipping into the shadowed dip in the middle of his chest, freshly bathed skin golden and glistening in the firelight. He lifted his gaze to the sharp collarbones that disappeared under the shirt, the strong neck that led up to a scruffy jaw.

It took a few moments for Sherlock’s eyes to meet his. John waited. When they were once again looking at each other, Sherlock’s throat bobbed.

In the months that had passed since their first intimacy, Sherlock’s almost epicene purity had matured, transformed into the masculinity endowed by the perilous events in his life. His smooth jaw now showed a light dusting of stubble but his lips were as plump and lovely as John remembered. Sherlock might have become a man as far as life experience went, but in the privacy of this bed chamber, every nervous gulp, every lowered glance and shivering breath betrayed his delectable inexperience. And John, always a patient teacher with his lovers, would gladly spend the rest of his days showing Sherlock the ways men found pleasure in each other.

‘Do I please you, Sherlock?’ John asked, his quiet self-assurance making it less a question than a statement. It felt so daring, so illicit to ask Sherlock that.

Sherlock’s nervous gaze darted around the chamber. He would need time to respond. His eyes rested again on John’s.

Still holding Sherlock's gaze, John pulled his lips in between his teeth, holding them there long enough to catch the shudder under Sherlock’s tunic, then releasing them as his tongue came out to lick over them and retreat, leaving glistening skin for Sherlock’s viewing pleasure. Or agony. The periphery of his vision noted a twitch in the fabric over Sherlock’s hips. A lazy smile formed in his eyes. He had his answer.

Sherlock pushed lightly on John’s chest. ‘On the bed’, he said, voice rough and unsteady.

John lifted a querying eyebrow. It was unexpected, this terse directive, but he complied, feeling the heat from the green fire simmering in Sherlock’s gaze. He was being watched from under heavy lids and thick lashes by a famished predator on the prowl and John was his prey. This had always been John’s role in his previous couplings and even with Sherlock. But now, his calves were pressed into the side of the mattress, toes curled in luscious anticipation. He waited, breathless, heart hammering in his chest in nervous enjoyment of his tacit submission.

Sherlock stood before him and pulled the trousers from his grasp, tossing them to the floor. ‘I said you will not need that.’ The words were a silken growl.

The balance of power had truly shifted. John shifted on the bed, a little uneasy. But only a little. He titled his head. ‘But I need my shirt?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

Sherlock knelt before him and pulled off his own nightshirt. He grinned up at John, suddenly looking very young. Very happy. ‘Between us, we are fully dressed.’

Tenderness surged through John at the loveable face. He leaned down, dropped a helpless, adoring kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock tipped his head up, demanding. ‘That will not do.’ He puckered his lips and John’s heart tapped out an odd rhythm. 

They kissed, no more than a press of lips because Sherlock pulled back before it could become more. John sat up. A subtle hardening of Sherlock’s jaw, his hooded gaze and John was once more a captive of the voracious hunter kneeling before him. He was still modest but felt naked.

Sherlock’s hands cupped his knees, pushed them apart, sleek muscles rippling lazily below an expanse of creamy skin. John’s cock thickened, as if filling the space made available to it.

‘Sherlock...’, he moaned, reaching out for Sherlock’s shoulders, grasping tight.

‘No’, said Sherlock with a slight shake of his head. ‘Do not touch me. And stay upright.’

John’s thighs pushed out through the cut in the side seams until the nightshirt tightened around them. The front of his shirt dipped between his legs. Sherlock sat back on his heels, then bent forward to shuffle lower.

He shot one last mesmerising look at John. ‘I have wanted to do this to you since that first time’, he whispered. ‘But…’

‘But I left you after’, John recalled.

‘No. No. The first time… in the Emir’s tent… you were kind to me.’ His face clouded from the memory but it was confusion, not distaste that John saw in his eyes. ‘I could not understand how I could at once feel hate and gratitude and lust… but I felt all of that. For you.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘And now, I can do this for you. I can do this for myself.’

‘My darling!’ John gasped.

He rose onto his knees to kiss John. ‘I love you’, he murmured. ‘John.’

Before John could react, before he could deepen the kiss like he wanted, Sherlock had sat back down, lifted the edge of the nightshirt and ducked his head under it. The curls disappeared below the taut white fabric, darkening them. A warm face pushed between John’s thighs, the scrape of the light stubble sparking an electric storm over his skin.

‘Sherlock!’ John moaned at the first swipe of a wet tongue over his tip.

In response, wet lips closed around the bulb. John’s cock swelled but his heart stuttered. His arms, loosened with pleasure, kicked back and locked at the elbows, holding him up as his fists clenched the sheets. Looking down, he saw only the shape of Sherlock’s curls pressed up against the light fabric of his nightshirt, slinking underneath as his head moved.

The veiled suggestion of what Sherlock was doing there and the sensation of his mouth on John’s cock were more maddeningly tantalising than an unobstructed view of Sherlock’s face moving between his thighs. John’s head dropped back, mouth open, neck stretched. He wondered what good deed he had done to deserve this much pleasure but he sent his gratitude heavenward nonetheless. Soon the rhythmic pull on his flesh obliterated any further thoughts on the matter. His eyes fluttered shut.

A guttural hum rumbled into his shaft and forced his eyes open. Breathing became difficult at the sight of Sherlock’s fingers biting into his knees, holding them apart, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing and relaxing with the movement of his head between John’s thighs. John, when roused, was bigger than his lovers would expect and had never been sucked till his root. Sherlock’s neck was longer than any of his previous lovers’. John feebly hoped this time might be different but that hope soon dimmed, for Sherlock’s ministrations only extended as far on his cock as those of the most adventurous of his bed-mates had who fellated him.

Sherlock’s mouth pulled off John’s cock. This was ending too quickly. Did Sherlock not enjoy giving him pleasure? A bereft sound rose up from John’s throat at the loss of the wet coaxing.  The large hands slid from his knees and up his thighs, pushing the restraining fabric up. John’s legs spontaneously spread wider. 

‘Sherlock...’, John pleaded weakly, not understanding his intentions. A moment later his grief was proved premature. Sherlock’s mouth returned and closed over his sac. Each globe was individually cossetted, tenderly, carefully sucked and licked and kissed, as if it were something precious. Sherlock’s mouth opened wider and both globes were bathed in saliva by his thirsting tongue. John thanked the Lord once more.

Cool air tingled over the thin skin when Sherlock’s mouth pulled away with a soft pop. He felt hot breath puff into the crease of his thighs. It might have been the effort Sherlock was making, his not entirely comfortable pose or his own arousal that caused him to pant. But the reasons did not matter. Just the thought of Sherlock having to catch his breath while pleasuring him was agonisingly erotic. John’s cock hardened further.

A bead of sweat slowly trickled down the long valley in the middle of Sherlock’s creamy back between corded muscles lining either side of his spine. Another trickle emerged from his curls and snaked down the nape of his neck, meandering around the muscles skulking over his shoulder blade. John resolved to lick Sherlock’s skin, taste the salt of his sweat, breathe in his scent. He resolved to unravel Sherlock’s body to him. But for now he waited for Sherlock to say he could move his hands which he obediently kept on the bed.

His cock slid all the way through the hot channel of Sherlock’s mouth to the back of his throat.  John’s lungs expanded around a startled gulp of air. His stomach rose and fell in airless gasps. He felt a soft nosing in the coarse hair at his base, tickled by laboured exhalation. His mind splintered from the realisation. _Lord!_ _I am fully inside!_ The impious mouth pulled back, holding at the tip, sucking lightly over the wet bulb. The mouth returned and swallowed him down. A moan spiralled out of John. 

Pleased with his vocal reactions, Sherlock redoubled his efforts to bring him bliss and what followed was a cadence of breathlessness and ragged sounds punctuated with loud slurping noises from under his shirt as Sherlock tormented John’s flesh with lips and tongue. And the slightest, tender scrape of teeth.

His tip was nestled in Sherlock’s soft throat when Sherlock swallowed. Then he hummed around John’s flesh. Like it never had before when he was being orally gratified, John’s body tumbled into chaos, into a torrent of liquid pleasure that ribboned out of him into Sherlock’s waiting mouth. Sherlock's throat contracted over his tip again. John’s back bowed and then arched, hands fisting in the sheets, thighs shuddering as his cock yielded more. Sherlock took it all in, holding his mouth there and sucking gently until the quivers ceased. He released John’s slowly shrinking cock from his mouth and pressed kisses to the tingling skin of his inner thighs. His cheek rested on the hot skin, his head still shrouded under the white nightshirt, curls skulking darkly under the thin fabric with each movement of his head. Gusts of warm breath tickled the downy hair on John's thighs.

It seemed a long while before Sherlock emerged to look up at John. Very deliberately, he pulled his lips in with a soft slurp and licked the edges, making sure he imbibed every last drop of John’s essence.

If John expected to see arrogant triumph in the green eyes, a reaction completely warranted by Sherlock’s masterful ravaging of John’s body, he was taken aback.

Sherlock’s uncertain smile died before it could be fully formed. His eyes were wide and dark, black eating up the green until they were but thin rings, hesitance glimmering in his gaze. He was unsure if he had pleased John with his mouth. _Sherlock was unsure if he had pleased John!_ A notion so ludicrous that John had to laugh. But it was a harsh sound in the quiet room. Sherlock flinched.

John immediately regretted his thoughtless outburst. Sherlock did not have the context of John’s unspoken thoughts.

‘Perhaps that was not- ’ Sherlock stopped, blinking hard. His brow furrowed. ‘I have- never done that before’, Sherlock said softly, his words tripping. ‘I have not the experience that you do but I-’

‘Hush.’ John drowned in the dark eyes looking up at him. ‘You do not know the power you wield over me.’ Sherlock’s hands were still on his knees and he covered them with his own. ‘Kiss me’, he said.

Sherlock lifted himself onto his knees, tilting his chin up. Still hesitating. John took his mouth in a bruising kiss, licking, nipping, plucking at the reddened lips, searching for traces of his own seed in Sherlock’s mouth.

‘I have no words to adequately express what you have given me, what you are to me.’

Sherlock pulled away and studied John’s face. ‘Your eloquence deserts you now?’ he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

‘You drew it all out of me’, he brushed a finger over Sherlock’s lips, ‘with this wicked, hedonistic mouth.’

John laughed and Sherlock laughed with him, openly pleased with John’s description of his skills.

‘What do you wish from me?’ John husked into Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Tell me, for there is nothing I would not give you. Not a thing.’

Still kissing, Sherlock murmured, ‘You said the man who takes is not the stronger.’

It was not unexpected. John smiled against Sherlock’s lips. ‘Mmm, and the man being taken is no less a man.’

Sherlock’s lips dropped to John’s neck. He waited.

‘How will you take me?’ John asked. His hand touched Sherlock’s bare chest, feeling the young heart held inside gallop. He smiled.

‘On your back’, Sherlock mumbled into the dip behind his collarbone. ‘I wish to see you.’

‘Whatever you wish.’ John leaned back and lowered himself to the bed.

Sherlock lifted off him to allow him to move his body up the mattress. When John lay with his head on the pillow, Sherlock leaned over him and lowered his head to press a kiss to his soft sex through the tunic. His hands gently grasped the outside of John’s thighs and pushed the tunic up. A little more and the fabric caught under John’s hips. He lifted his buttocks off the bed and Sherlock’s palms slid up his sides, taking the shirt with him. A slow, serpentine undulation of John’s body over the glide of thin, bunching fabric and then it was pulled over his head and off his arms. A flick of Sherlock’s wrist sent the wispy tunic floating to the floor.

‘So unfair’, John sighed, his gaze fixed upon the obstructive trousers hanging low on Sherlock’s lean hips. His eyes trailed up the wispy hair on Sherlock’s belly, the scimitar-like hip bones sharply framing the taut stomach, the lean planes of his chest and the wide shoulders. They stared at each other. ‘I must see you. I need to see you.’   

Sherlock knelt by his hips and slowly, very slowly gave a small tug to the drawstring of his trousers. The loose knot unravelled and his trousers pooled at his knees. A splendid erection faced John, flushed and throbbing. The smooth globes behind the pulsing flesh were tight with arousal.

John surged up and took Sherlock in his mouth.

Sherlock pushed him away. ‘No. I wish to be inside you when I-’

‘I will stop in time, my darling. I promise. But do not deny me this.’ The skin on the inside of his arms tingled as it slinked over Sherlock’s lean hips, encircling him, and his mouth swallowed the hot flesh before him. Eyes closed, he lost himself in the scent of Sherlock, pressing down all the way until his nose was nestled in the coarse, dark hair at the base of the thick shaft.

Long fingers threaded through his hair. Not pushing, not grabbing. Just caressing. Running down the length of his locks to his shoulders. His own hands covered Sherlock’s buttocks and squeezed lightly. Pulling apart the succulent flesh, he traced a finger around the intimate pucker, teasing the sensitive flesh in narrowing circles that gradually drew closer to the centre and then… pushed in. A delighted squeal and a jerk of the slender body told him Sherlock was close. John pulled off. He had the span of his days to unravel Sherlock again. And again. Tonight was for Sherlock.

He pushed back on his hands and moved up on the bed. Lying on his back, he looked up at Sherlock who was still kneeling beside his hips.

Sherlock stood back to kick off his trousers. ‘Do you…want it? Truly?’ The green gaze was shielded. ‘From me?’

‘More than you could imagine.’

‘I have never-’

‘Nor I.’

Wide, dark eyes held John’s.

‘No one before you. And no one after. Only you.’ Just like that, he made another vow to Sherlock.

‘John!’ Sherlock fell over him, kisses fell over his mouth, his neck, his eyes, his cheeks.

John held the frantic head in his hands, stilling his lover. ‘Shh… my love. How much longer will you torment me?’

‘It is torture for me, too.’

John smiled. ‘Then put us both out of our misery.’ To make his meaning clearer, he spread his thighs and thrust his hips up against Sherlock’s. The growl Sherlock rumbled into his neck was very encouraging.

‘Close your eyes’, Sherlock whispered over a kiss. ‘I want you to feel me.’

John shut his eyes and gave himself over to Sherlock’s hands. A phial popped open.

His eyes still closed, John smiled. ‘So that is why you left.’

‘Mmm.’

Moments later, the skin between his cheeks tingled when teasing fingers walked down his cleft and slickly pressed over his entrance. Then they slipped inside, one at a time, inch by inch, then together and deeper until three fingers were pressed all the way inside, stretching him. He felt himself being slowly opened by Sherlock, his breathing growing shallow from the anticipation of being filled by his lover, of finally being complete.

The fingers withdrew and warm hips settled between his thighs.

‘Do not open your eyes just yet’, Sherlock murmured over a nipple. His hands pushed John’s legs up and apart, fully exposing his centre. The muscles of a strong forearm slid against the inside of John’s thigh as Sherlock reached down to hold his cock at John’s entrance.

John relaxed his flesh at the touch of the warm shaft. His lips parted around a sigh. He felt a push, just the smallest thrust and as his eyes opened to gaze up at Sherlock, his body opened, taking Sherlock in, the breach in his flesh feeling like a rupture in his soul, now opened up to wrap itself around the only person he had ever truly loved. A tear rolled down John’s face.

Concern clouded Sherlock’s face. He held still.

‘No-, no. I am- happy’, John assured him with soft desperation. ‘You make me happy.’

Sherlock kissed him. Unsmiling, he said, ‘You make me delirious.’

A slow push ahead, gentle, careful until he was fully seated within John but still he wanted more. He moved his hips, pushed in, tried to get deeper but his hip bones were pressed into John’s buttocks, his sac crushed under the pressure. He vented his frustration at his aborted progress in a loud groan.

John smiled, oddly shy. ‘You have given me everything.’

‘But it is not enough!’ Sherlock moaned.

‘Perhaps it never will be.’

‘I must have you’, Sherlock sobbed. His hips began to move, relishing the pull back and the push in. The slide of his flesh inside John. Dropping his head, he covered John’s mouth with his. ‘John..., I must have all of you.’

‘Look at me, Sherlock.’

A tousled head lifted and large darkened eyes met his. ‘You have all of me, my darling, and more. It will never be enough for me.’

‘No?’ Sherlock asked despairingly.

‘Never’, John whispered over a kiss to Sherlock’s hair. ‘I will crave your touch until I die.’ His arms closed around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him into his chest. The weight of Sherlock’s body slowly pressed down on John. John’s breath was a sigh.

'Until we die.' Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck. ‘I feel so... surrounded in your arms.’

‘I can hardly surround you’, John chuckled, and then winced.

Sherlock held John’s gleaming eyes until he got John’s meaning. A delighted smile spread on his lips. ‘Truly?’

‘Truly. Take me now, make me yours.’

His face closed over John’s. _I am lost to you, my love,_ was John’s last coherent thought before he went to a place he had never been, a place free of guilt and fear and regret, a place of peace and love _._

Above, the kisses were fierce, a tangle of tongues and lips and teeth; below, they kissed a different way, an equally savage surrender in every hot thrust of body against body. Pleasure swept over them, possessor and possessed, the distinction blurring with every shuddering pulse of release until it mattered no more. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock.

Later, soft words of love were spoken in the quiet night. Tender touches were apologies for the past and kisses were promises for the future. The future John would have with Sherlock.

The knight pulled his slaked lover into his arms and kissed his soft curls. Together they lay in silence until sleep enveloped them in its soft embrace.


	34. Epilogue

* * *

John stirred. Sherlock was pressed up against him, like a wonderfully bright column of white heat, naked as the day he was born, head resting on John’s chest.

John wanted Sherlock awake. He wanted Sherlock asleep. He wanted Sherlock any way he could have him. He ran his fingers through the thick curls and lightly scraped Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock groaned. He lifted his head and blinked. Then his eyes met John’s. Slowly, awareness bloomed about where he was and with whom, and his face was transformed by a smile of sweet, innocent joy that spread over his lips. John tipped Sherlock’s chin up and claimed his mouth.

‘Is it morning already?’ Sherlock slurred.

‘It is.’

A teasing light filled Sherlock’s eyes. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Did you allow me to sleep?’

Sherlock chuckled softly and burrowed his face against John’s neck.

John slowly rubbed his cheeks on Sherlock’s curls. ‘You torment me. With your words, your body.’

The lovely head pulled free from its warm nook in the curve of John’s neck and shoulder and lifted to face John. ‘I do?’

John cocked an eyebrow.

Sherlock bit his lip. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice trembling. ‘Why do you look at me so?’

‘Do not feign ignorance of my reasons’, said John, his half-lidded eyes devoid of softness. Naked hunger flashed in his dark irises like the glint of blue steel.

The tremble in Sherlock’s voice seeped down his skin into a full-body shudder. He swallowed. ‘I do not know’, he lied.

‘You tormented me when you danced for me’, said John, shifting closer to his lover. ‘And you enjoyed it.’

‘No…no, I did not, I- I only…’, Sherlock stopped.

John tutted. ‘Touching yourself in ways that you knew would inflame me. Hiding your face behind that mask. Running your fingers over your neck, drawing my attention to the sweat trickling down your skin. Rolling your hips like the most dissolute of courtesans, moving in a way that made the sweat glint off the swell of your chest, sheathing your legs in fabric so thin that your accompanists had a hard time playing their instruments. Should I go on?’

Sherlock mutely shook his head.

‘You used your body to provoke me. I cannot allow that.’

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered. ‘I could not see myself as you or they saw me. I detected no change in your reactions. Or theirs.’

Another untruth. Was Sherlock _asking_ to be chastened?

‘Now you perjure yourself, Sherlock. You are rather a wicked boy. Your parents would not be pleased if they knew their son was so immodest, purposefully kindling impious thoughts in onlookers.’

Green eyes lifted and met his gaze. ‘But I danced for you. Only you. Are _you_ displeased?’

John shook his head. ‘But I should be.’

‘How might I atone for my misbehaviour?’ he asked, but his eyes glittered with mischief.

John was only the slightest bit amused. ‘I will tell you how, my wayward boy.’

The steel in John’s tone shattered Sherlock’s smugness. His body felt weak and precipitously docile under John.

He pressed up against John. ‘John’, he groaned and reached for his lover’s mouth with his.

John pulled back. ‘No. You will get my mouth again when I give it to you.’ He planted his lips on Sherlock’s neck and sucked hard on the flesh. When he lifted his head, a pink bruise had begun to form on the lovely, white skin. John smirked. ‘I am going to mark you all over your body. Anyone who dares look at you will know you belong to me.’

He lifted himself away from Sherlock but Sherlock lunged at John, attempting to push him down on the bed and kiss him again, earning a fond smack on his cheek. The light sting rippled down his spine to his cock which thickened.

John stepped back from the bed, looking down at Sherlock. ‘Not until I allow it. On your back.’

Once again, Sherlock obeyed meekly. He lifted his head from the pillow to watch John, his cheeks flushing hard when he felt the burning gaze brush over his groin. Suddenly shy, he pulled the sheet over his hip.

‘Off’, John growled. ‘I wish to see you.’

Sherlock did not move the sheet. Instead, his hand tightened in the fabric. His lower lip disappeared between his teeth.

Annoyance turned to arousal; a snarl rumbled in John’s throat. He yanked the sheet hard from Sherlock’s hands, exposing his flesh. ‘Did you not hear me?’

Sherlock’s head fell to the side. His eyes drew closed, his chest rose and fell with slow, long breaths. Gasps almost, as his skin tingled with the invisible graze of John’s ravenous scrutiny.

John dragged his eyes over the trembling nakedness, laid out for his pleasure. He wanted nothing more than to fall over Sherlock and love him with his mouth, his words and his body. But now, he would make Sherlock exert himself for his own pleasure.

‘Open your eyes, Sherlock.’

The dark head straightened on the pillow and thick lashes lifted. John drowned in the familiar green depths but he did not fight it.

‘Put your hand on yourself. For me.’

A slender hand crept down Sherlock’s belly and clasped his cock.

John tilted his head. His lips had become dry and his tongue licked over them. ‘Go on, now. I do not like to be kept waiting.’

Sherlock noticed that. His lips relaxed in a lazy smile. ‘Then tell me what I should do.’

 _Oh, you are such a coquet, my love._ ‘Stroke yourself.’

Long fingers tightened on the thickening shaft. And pulled once. John’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Touch me, John’, Sherlock pleaded, his body arching sinuously over the bed as his hand teased his own flesh, thumb stroking the wet tip in circles. His knees fell open and his stomach sank in the wake of a sharp exhale. On any other man, this brazen display might seem lewd but Sherlock’s body was like minimalist art, an alabaster masterpiece of stark angles and delicious curves, sharp bones and long columns of tight flesh writhing under the caresses of his own hand.

_My beautiful fiend, you know exactly how deliciously tortured I am by the sight of you like this, uninhibited and wild. How I love you for that._

‘No.’

Sherlock’s hand stilled. ‘No?’ he asked, desire swimming in the slivers of green visible under his lust-heavy eyelids.

‘Not yet’, John relented, his voice softer. He recognised, despairingly, that Sherlock was breaking his resolve. ‘I did not ask you stop. Touch yourself.’

Sherlock resumed stroking his flushed cock which had turned a lovely pink; the swollen bulb peeked out from the foreskin on every pull down to his root and disappeared under the thin skin on every upward stroke. John’s own cock had hardened to capacity, lustily making its presence known between his legs. He padded on bare feet towards his straining lover, his cock bobbing with each step.

‘Do not stop’, he breathed.

His thighs were pressed against the mattress on which Sherlock lay open to him, stroking his cock with one hand, running the other over his electrified skin, pinching his own nipples and squealing in the scandalous delight it caused him. It was almost more than John could take to watch Sherlock like this, wanton and abandoned to his own pleasure. Almost. Because he was a warrior. He could resist this temptation a little longer.

His searching eyes flitted over the chamber, seeking something to facilitate the act. Sherlock understood. With a soft laugh, he jerked his chin towards the bedside table where the phial stood, empty. John snarled.

One lone tall lamp with six burning wicks stood in the far corner of the room.

‘Damnation!’ John muttered as he marched towards the lamp.

Impatient finger and thumb extinguished the wicks in sequence, dragged them out and dropped them on the floor. The viscous fluid would serve as an emollient for their joining. Tilting the lamp, he poured part of the heated oil into his palm and strode back to the bed. Holding out his hand he said, ‘Ready yourself.’

Sherlock’s eyes turned dark with alarm.

‘You know what needs to be done. Now, do it.’

‘While…’, Sherlock swallowed. ‘While you watch?’

‘While I watch. Do not make me wait, Sherlock. I am not a patient man.’

Still holding his cock, Sherlock rose and walked on his knees to the edge of the bed, getting closer to John. One large hand remained on the hot flesh while the other reached out to John’s outstretched arm, dipping into the cup of his palm. Sherlock immersed the entire length of his fingers into the lubricant and quickly turned his hand upwards to avoid soiling the sheets. The oil trickled down in glossy rivulets and pooled in his palm. His enticing gaze was locked with John’s as he reached behind himself and touched his entrance.

The fluttering of his lashes and a sharp intake of breath told John that Sherlock had breached his own body. The teeth biting into the plump lower lip were proof of Sherlock’s solitary gratification. He was enjoying himself too much. Their eyes never wavered from each other.

‘Turn around’, John rasped.

‘Why?’ Sherlock challenged.

Had he greater control over his speech, John would chastise his lover right there, but words were becoming difficult to form. ‘Now!’ was all he could shout.

Sherlock complied, a complacent smile playing on his lips, and turned around on his knees. One hand was shrouded in shadow, still buried in his crease, the other remained curled around his cock.

John pushed down on his shoulder. ‘Show me.’ Haidar, or whoever had prepared these quarters, deserved his gratitude for illuminating the chamber with torches, for John would never forfeit the sight of what Sherlock was doing to himself.

Sherlock unclasped his shaft and dropped forward, holding himself up on the outstretched fingers of his now unoccupied hand, body only slightly bent at the waist.

He made a sound when John’s calloused palms grabbed his cheeks and pulled them apart to get a better view of his self-preparation. There was a change in John; breaths came fast and shallow, hands tightened on Sherlock’s succulent flesh. Sherlock’s lips tipped up. John had unknowingly ceded some more power to him. Lifting his head and arching his spine, one long finger embedded inside himself. He went still. John stopped breathing, stunned by the brazen seduction. His acolyte was slowly becoming his master.

The absolute silence behind Sherlock meant that John was raking a lust-filled gaze over the delectable, sinewy curve of his back, the sharp angles of his shoulder blades heightened with the effort of reaching around to his entrance and holding himself up, the narrowing of his waist, the subtle flare down to his slender hips.

The ardent attention made Sherlock’s toes curl. He let out a throaty moan and pushed his finger deeper inside himself.

John groaned and squeezed Sherlock’s buttocks. ‘More! Harder!’ he growled, his eyes riveted to the spot where Sherlock’s finger disappeared into his body.

A second finger joined the first and pushed all the way in.

‘More!’ John urged roughly.

A third finger pushed into the loosening cavity and stabbed inside, sliding easily through the slickness. Sherlock’s hand began to drive into his centre; his thighs shook from the amatory onslaught but his fingers did not stop. He had never pleasured himself like this. The strangeness of feeling his own hand breaching his body, and being watched by the unwavering eyes of his lover, brought him close to the edge. So close he might fall over. His head flew back and a cry escaped his lips. One word. John’s name. It broke John out of his transfixion.

John realised that he was close and instantly shouted, ‘Stop!’

The hand stopped moving and the dark head dropped, chin lolling close to the glistening chest.

‘Out’, John gasped. Sherlock slowly dragged his fingers out of himself and dropped his heavy hand onto the bed. The slickness seeped into the dry sheets. His back was bowed with the exertion, a thin sheen of sweat shining over the milky expanse of skin. Between his legs, his stretched, pinked hole gradually closed around air.

‘May the Lord forgive me, Sherlock, but I have never seen a creature as beautiful as you.’

A husky, shallow laugh rippled down Sherlock’s spine.

John leaned over and pressed a kiss to the damp shoulder. ‘You are a decadence to rival wine and women, my darling. You could drive the most virtuous man to sin like this.’

Sherlock flushed under John’s praise. ‘I am relieved that Your Grace cares naught for pretences of piety.’

John laughed softly and kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his scent in the damp curls. ‘Oh, I _know_ I am a sinner and you, my exquisite devil, are my greatest weakness, my sweetest vice.’

Sherlock moaned. ‘Touch me. Take me.’

John almost succumbed to the boy’s needy appeal but he braced himself just in time. Lowering his head to Sherlock’s hips, he bit into Sherlock’s plump cheeks hard enough to make his lover wince. ‘Not yet’, he said, straightening.

‘How much longer must I wait?’ Sherlock complained.

‘Turn around.’

His limbs thoroughly drained by his own caresses and disobedient to the end, Sherlock collapsed face down on the bed, his chest heaving as he gulped air.

‘Sherlock.’ It was a command to rise.

Sherlock groaned and lifted himself to his knees. He shuffled close to the edge of the bed and sat back on his folded legs, heels digging into his bare buttocks. His engorged cock was nestled between his slim thighs, dark against the white flesh.

‘Take me in your mouth’, said John, holding out his cock with his clean hand and gently tracing a wet trail with its glistening tip over the pale skin of Sherlock’s cheeks.

Sherlock’s lips reflexively parted and his head turned, tongue peeking out as it sought to lick the flesh it so desired. John toyed with him, dragging his flesh out of reach just as Sherlock’s tongue reached it. Sherlock moaned his objection to being teased like this. A beguiled chuckle slipped out of John when Sherlock pressed his ringent lips closed and looked up at him with sulking, green eyes. A scowl had darkened the lovely forehead. Still smiling, John gently poked his tip against the seam of the displeased lips but could not get Sherlock to open his mouth. He pressed some more. Sherlock growled. John’s eyes softened.

‘Will you take me in your mouth, Sherlock?’ he asked, almost a plea this time.

All of a sudden, his flesh was enveloped in moist warmth. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, cheeks hollowed over John’s flesh as he sucked on it, drawing out helpless groans from John whose hands grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and his fingers dug into the lean muscles while his strength was pulled from him by his hungry lover. It was too much.

‘Enough!’ John gasped.

Sherlock pulled his head away. John collapsed onto the bed, on his back, and spread his thighs. He held out his clean hand while the other shiny palm clasped his own cock, slicking it with the oil, his meaning clear.

Sherlock took the offered hand and swung one leg over John’s hips, settling his buttocks over John’s thighs. Their sacs were pressed together, tight and hot. Cocks brushed, one slick with oil, the other slick with evidence of desire. Sherlock’s buttocks slid in a slow, sensuous rhythm over John’s thighs. John nearly convulsed.

‘Take your pleasure on me, Sherlock.’

The slender hips lifted and long fingers curled around John’s shaft, holding it still. John’s tip tingled when Sherlock’s entrance lightly pressed over it. Then, as if he were born to take John, Sherlock sank down and his body opened up around the thickness penetrating him. His hands were splayed on John’s belly, back stretched upright and arched, head thrown back as he adjusted to John’s girth. John’s hands held Sherlock’s slender waist and caressed the dip above his hips with his thumbs. Moments later, the beautiful hips rose and John’s cock was revealed as it slid out of Sherlock but then it disappeared into him again as Sherlock dropped back down. His hips rose and fell, rolled and twitched, the ring of muscle alternately tightening and loosening with every movement. His hands slid up John’s torso and grasped the taut muscles on his chest. Sherlock’s body fell over John’s and his mouth covered a nipple, sucking the budded flesh into his mouth like his body was sucking John into his passage. Kissing up John’s neck, he nibbled hard on his stubbled jaw and licked over it. But he went no further.

John broke. ‘Give me your mouth, Sherlock’, he begged and was rewarded when hot, swollen lips closed over his.

Sherlock’s tongue ventured in and was caught in John’s caress. Below, John’s hips began to drive upwards in counterpoint to Sherlock’s downward thrusts, meeting in a violent joining that became increasingly rapid and intense until, short moments later, Sherlock’s pleasure overtook him and pulsed from his throbbing flesh in warm string of white, spraying John’s chest. Heat flooded his passage when John jerked once and juddered under him, his own climax rushing up into Sherlock.

But it was not over. They did not want it to ever be over. John gently pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders and rolled him onto his back so that he could push with greater ease into his lover’s lax body and fill him with the last drops of his rapture. Weakened from pleasure, John fell heavily over Sherlock, gasping into the sweaty skin of his neck, their arms locked around each other as their breaths slowly lengthened and they floated through their blissful haze into the present.

With one long gust of breath huffed into John’s shoulder, the quivering in Sherlock’s body calmed. He buried his nose in John’s sweaty locks and drew in a deep breath, exulting in the maleness of John’s scent. He pressed a kiss to John’s hair and laughed softly.

The dishevelled head lifted, damply clumped strands of dark gold brushing over Sherlock’s cheeks. ‘What is it?’ John asked. Seeing the mischief dancing in Sherlock’s eyes, he smiled and gently bumped his nose with Sherlock’s. ‘If you can laugh after what just transpired, I was too lenient to you.’

‘I was thinking that I should misbehave more often.’

A husky laugh rumbled in John’s chest. ‘You should’, he smiled in agreement. ‘For I cannot imagine an activity I enjoy more than chastising you.’

He rolled onto his back, taking Sherlock with him. His arms tightened around the warm body, clasping his lover to him.

Sherlock pressed his ear to John’s chest, listening to the strong, calming beat of his lover’s brave heart. ‘You have not said it today’, Sherlock mumbled, his need evident in the vulnerable softness of his voice.

John chuckled. He understood. ‘Said what?’ he asked innocently.

‘You know what.’

His fingers threaded through Sherlock’s curls. ‘What do you think I was saying to you all this time?’

A puff of exasperation tickled the soft hairs on John’s chest.

John’s smile became a grin. ‘Look at me, Sherlock.’

The dark head lifted and green eyes met his. He cupped a lovely cheek with the palm of one hand. There was not a trace of humour in the deep blue eyes that held Sherlock’s gaze, just an ocean of desperate adoration.

‘I love you, Sherlock. Only you. Until the end of my days.’

‘I knew it.’ Sherlock’s smug grin was only a façade because inside he was liquefying.

‘Yes, you did’, John conceded. ‘Now come back’, he said, holding his arms open. ‘I am empty without you.’ It was a simple admission.

Sherlock settled over John again, one side of his face pressed to the soft golden hairs on his warrior’s chest. John’s sweat was cool on Sherlock’s skin. A peaked nipple pressed into his cheek. Sherlock’s heart stumbled and began beating in time with John’s.

‘I love you, John. Only you. Until the end of my days. But...,’ he paused, 'today has just begun.'

‘Indeed. Today, I wish to take you again. Many times.’

Sherlock smiled. ‘And tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow, I will take you home.’

'I am already home.'

John lifted his brows.

Sherlock kissed his chest and slowly rubbed his face over the downy skin. Another kiss and he lifted his head, resting his chin in the dip in John's chest to hold the soft blue gaze. 'Right here, with you. Like this. Home.'

John blinked and turned his head away to the side. Sherlock had stolen his heart again with those words. So it was only fair that he stole Sherlock's breath with his kisses. 

 

-THE END-

 

* * *

** A/N **

This is it. When I started this fic, I had no idea it would take this much time or end up being my longest story so far. I think this has been my most ambitious plot to date (besides The Ninth Realm). Also, having to consciously avoid using contractions and the words ‘fuck’ or 'really' to make it feel authentic as a period piece was hard! :-D It was a wondrous thing when Theo’s character came to life, the Merry Men and Charles, the Sheriff, the Abbot, and not to forget _Gregory_ and _Sufyan_. I have never written a female character before so hopefully Marian turned out OK.

I cannot overstate how valuable I have found the kind words and continued engagement of everyone who left kudos or shared their encouragement via their comments.

Special thanks to **Ayako, EllieSaxon, Iamthebookwyrm and JuJuBee (Marcy09)** for ‘talking’ to me so regularly (and Ellie, for threatening the characters every time they did something stupid. I swear I was more apprehensive of her reactions than they were. :-D). All my love to you wonderful, precious girls. I wish you the best in life.

Returning commenters Alihahdnaid, DarkLuna, JPerceval, QuinnCliff, Olga3, Opinemyfate, kimmeow, MagnoliaFox, newhamster, mafm, DaringD, GlamPixie, Lunacom, sailorlimabean, Choice, ferdc, whatsernameholmes, feisty_one, saja, Co_pilot, Galileobunny, gilded_bee, Bports62, sanctuary, MustangWomanT, MyriadProBold, SeagreenMascara, MsKale, WatsonsStressBall – THANK YOU for sharing your thoughts and appreciation.

And everyone else who’s stopped by to subscribe or let me know with a kudos or a comment here and there that the story was enjoyable, THANK YOU SO MUCH. If you like this story, a signal boost would be really cool!! 

If you find yourself checking out my other works, I’d love to hear from you again. If you ever want to chat outside of AO3, I’m at ravenscaronao3@gmail.com.

See you next time!


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